Graces, keepers of bright horse‑lands
where Kephisos flows through its own undulating
— I speak toward you.
It is by your nearness
that sweetness enters a life:
a skill arriving clean,
a face briefly lit,
a name carried a little further.
Even the gods lean into you
when they gather,
your thrones set beside Apollo’s gold bow,
your attention turned toward
the slow authority of Zeus.
Aglaia, Euphrosyne, Thalia
— look down on this small procession,
its steps held lightly by fortune.
I’ve come in the Lydian mode
to speak Asopichos’ name,
for through you his city has been lifted.
Echo—go to the dark‑walled house
where Persephone keeps her quiet.
Tell his father this:
in Pisa’s valley
the boy Orchomenos
has set on his young hair
the bright, winged wreaths
won in the games.
.