In the last light of twilight's grace,
where the marble bench rests still,
a bust of Apollo quietly remains,
with the sky's fiery hues, so vivid and real.

The red sun sinking in the distance,
blue and grey in a perfect blend,
mixed with the reddest tint,
creating the evening's lovely end.

Apollo, of stone and mythical might,
his gaze is heavy, his mind burdened deep,
a tear rolls slowly down his cheek,
as if sorrow was too vast to keep.

With eyes so sombre, he looks down,
into marble's cold embrace,
where thoughts are dark,
and memories wear a grieving face.

Sunset's splendour adorns the scene,
but within Apollo lies a profound sorrow,
a heart of stone,
that still can feel the echo of woe.

So he stands in evening's beauty,
with the sky a canvas of pain and grace,
a tear in the silence of the night,
an eternal moment in art's embrace.

Apollo's Melancholy: A Tale of Love, Loss, and Introspection

Apollo had endured a string of unfortunate events that left him discouraged. His laurel wreath, crafted from the leaves of Daphne's sacred tree, had been snatched away by a mischievous dove while he was walking near the ochre villa above my house. Apollo already harboured a dislike for doves, and this theft only deepened his disdain. But the worst blow came when a string on his kithara snapped. These strings, made from the gut of specially selected black-fleeced rams that grazed on the northwest slopes of Mount Olympus, were rare and difficult to replace. Without his music, which usually lifted his spirits, Apollo felt the weight of his melancholy grow.

Apollo felt utterly sorry for himself, his self-pity boundless that evening. The stunning sunset before him brought no comfort. Instead, it signified an ending rather than a promise of a new day. The memories of happier times only deepened his sorrow, for he longed to reclaim those moments, unwilling to let them slip away.

As Apollo brooded, his inner dialogue intensified. Apollo Pythios, the patron deity of Delphi and his more assertive persona, chided Apollo Agyieus, the protector of public streets and places, for wallowing in self-pity. "Look at you, moping like a mortal," Pythios scoffed. "You are a god, yet you allow yourself to be undone by such trivialities."

Apollo Agyieus, feeling the sting of Pythios' words, tried to muster a defence. "It's not just the wreath or the kithara," he murmured. "It's everything. The constant reminder of what I've lost and can never regain."

"Self-pity is unbecoming of a god," Pythios retorted. "We have the power to shape our destiny, to overcome and rise above our sorrows. You must find that strength within you."

Apollo Agyieus knew Pythios was right, yet his grief was overwhelming. Several times, he had tried to turn back time to bring back those who had died. Each attempt had ended in sorrow, with new flowers, a hyacinth, a cypress tree, and a laurel wreath, but never with the return of his loved ones. He felt anxiety gripping his soul, and a tear threatened to escape his eye. As a god, he told himself he must not cry—tears were for mortals and weak men.

Apollo Pythios, seeking to divert Agyieus from his dark thoughts, began recounting their cherished memories. "Do you remember the first time we saw Hyacinthus?" he began. "He was so captivating, with his tall, strong, muscular frame. His easy grace and shared love for nature made him an ideal companion. Those days spent playing music together and rejoicing in the harmony of our relationship were truly divine."

Agyieus sighed, "Yes, I remember. But those memories only serve to deepen my sorrow. Hyacinthus' death was such a tragedy. He was struck down by the very discus I threw, or worse, by the jealousy of Zephyrus, the god of the west wind. How can I find solace in memories tainted by such loss?"

Pythios, undeterred, continued. "Hyacinthus became an important religious figure in Sparta. The festival of Hyacinthia was celebrated for three days, and he was honoured for his life and death, followed by his rebirth as a flower. It's a testament to our shared love and its impact on the world."

Agyieus, feeling the familiar sting of grief, added, "Yet, no matter how many festivals or flowers, I cannot bring him back. Each attempt to defy time and fate has ended in sorrow. First Hyacinthus, then others. Adonis, Cyparissus—all loved and lost. Each transformed into something beautiful but never returned to me."

"Remember, Adonis," Pythios interjected. We deeply loved him. He was androgynous, a lover of both us and Aphrodite. His love brought warmth and passion to our lives."

Agyieus replied, "And yet, he too was taken. Just like Cyparissus, who was transformed into a cypress tree out of grief for a lost pet. It seems that all we touch turns to sorrow."

Pythios, attempting to uplift his other half, spoke of their triumphs. "Despite these losses, we have had moments of victory and love. Think of Daphne, who became our eternal symbol even though she became a laurel tree. Our love, though unfulfilled, gave us the laurel wreath, a symbol of triumph in sports, music, and poetry."

Agyieus retorted, "But Daphne's transformation was a curse, not a blessing. I chased her out of love, but it turned into a nightmare. She feared me and chose to become a tree rather than be with me. And what of Cassandra? She tricked me into giving her the gift of prophecy and then spurned my love. Each memory, each triumph, is tainted by loss and rejection."

Pythios, ever the optimist, tried to steer the conversation to a lighter note. "Remember, not all our endeavours ended in tragedy. There were moments of joy and companionship. We had our share of lovers and admirers, both male and female. We brought music, light, and prophecy to the world. Our legacy is not one of sorrow alone."

Agyieus, however, could not be easily swayed. "But those moments are overshadowed by the losses. The string breaking on my kithara is symbolic of my life. A subsequent sorrow has marred every joy I have ever known. And now, without my music, I am left alone with my thoughts, haunted by the ghosts of my past."

Pythios, sensing the depth of Agyieus' despair, softened his tone. "I understand your pain. We have lived through more love and loss than any mortal could endure. But we are gods, and our story is not yet finished. We must find the strength to continue, to create new memories, and to find joy in the present, even if it is fleeting."

Agyieus nodded slowly, acknowledging Pythios' wisdom. "Perhaps you are right. Maybe there is still hope for us. But for now, let me mourn. Let me grieve for all that we have lost. Tomorrow, we can begin anew."

As the conversation lulled, Apollo Agyieus could not help but remember Marpessa, a princess of Aitolia. "Do you recall Marpessa?" he asked Pythios. "She chose Idas over us, fearing we would abandon her in old age. She was wise beyond her years, and though her decision crushed me, it was rooted in truth."

Pythios nodded, "Indeed, Marpessa was a sharp reminder of our nature. We are not meant to be tied down, yet each rejection cuts deep. Her choice was pragmatic, and we must respect that."

Agyieus continued, "And then there was Adonis, the prince of Kypros Island. He was our love for hire, and his androgyny allowed him to be with us and Aphrodite. His beauty was unmatched, yet he too was taken from us."

"Do not forget Cyparissus," Pythios added. "His grief over a pet led to his transformation into a cypress tree. Each love story ends in metamorphosis rather than reunion."

Agyieus sighed deeply. "Even our brief solace in the embrace of Boreas, the cold north wind, was fleeting. Winter's chill could not last forever, and with the arrival of spring, our comfort vanished."

Like many of the Greek gods, Apollo was bisexual. Apollo had male and female lovers in myths, just like his father, Zeus. His most famous male lover was the young Hyacinthus, whose tragic story explains the origin of the eponymous flower. Greek sexuality thus clearly challenges the limits of modern heteronormativity.

Apollo is the model of Greek male excellence in physical, intellectual, and ethical terms. This model of masculine perfection was compatible with sexuality beyond the limits of heterosexuality. His male and female relationships highlighted the fluidity of love and desire among the gods.

However, ancient Greece was not a paradise of sexual freedom and tolerance. The rules about what sexual relations were right and wrong in Hellenic society did not depend so much on the gender of individuals as on their status. In Greek culture, the free citizen was at the top of society, and below him lived those considered to be of lower status, the 'others' who were subject to the citizen: women, foreigners, and slaves.

In all areas, including that of sexuality, the Greek citizen was expected to assume a dominant role within asymmetrical relationships established with people of lower rank. A Greek male citizen could thus have sex with his wife, with a concubine, with male and female slaves, and with male and female prostitutes. However, he was not to have relations with a citizen of his age or to assume a passive role with any male of any status. This does not mean there were no relationships outside these norms, but rather that those relationships were rejected and ridiculed.

Pythios tried to bring some closure to their introspective dialogue. "Despite our losses and the constraints of society, we have left a legacy. Our love stories, our music, our prophecies—they all live on. We must not let sorrow define us."

Agyieus, with a hint of hope in his voice, replied, "You are right. We are gods, and

Our story is one of both joy and sorrow. Let us honour our past and look forward to the future, for even in the darkest nights, the promise of a new dawn is never far away."

As the sun set and the stars twinkled in the night sky, Apollo felt the total weight of his sorrow. He mourned for Hyacinthus, Adonis, Cyparissus, and all the others he had loved and lost. He mourned for the broken kithara and the stolen laurel wreath. But he also held onto the hope that Pythios had offered. Even in the darkest nights, the promise of a new dawn was never far away.