The Bacchae: The Modern Existential Dilemma

Alas! 

 

Here, in the center,

As no horizon remains for that eye, 

That dreadful, dreaming eye. 

 

For, where Heaven and Earth collide,

There — 

Madness surely abides. 

 

Take here, the center,

Intimations of Babel,

Where man greatly strives. 

 

Where man believes he may thrive — 

Truly thrive. 

But this —

      this is the lie. 

 

For he, in modernity, 

Forgets the beauty —

And the terror,

Of that once dreaming eye. 

 

Awake! 

Out of your slumber!

Object to your subject! 

And take reign of your mind!

 

This — 

      this is the lie. 

 

While nestled in the center,

How slow we remember!

A king — long before you and I.

 

Like you and I,

He too held steadfast and centered,

And thought not of that eye, 

 

That dreadful, and dreaming eye. 

 

Much like you and I, 

Reveling in his reason,

Dreamed up an empire. 

 

One to cover the sky,

And — one to deny,

Deny that dreadful and dreaming eye. 

 

Woe to Thebes! 

Now shrouded in reason, 

And shackled for treason,

Should they ever believe in — 

Believe in the Twice-Born. 

 

And shunned be the wild,

The Untamed, the Unbridled!

Kinsmen to the Twice-Born. 

 

Esteem not that eye — 

That dreadful and dreaming eye.

 

But yet — the god,

The god that Thebes denies, 

That born of womb and thigh,

Will come to stand the test of time. 

 

And here, in the center,

The center that shields you and I — 

Beware of that sign.

 

The sign of the eye —

The sign of the Twice-Born. 

 

For soon, he shall come! 

And come he will — 

Come, in disguise.

 

Stranger from the east!

A woman unknown,

Devotee to the god of the vine!

 

This god, 

He of womb and thigh,

Demands he be known,

Known upon high —

 

O, the folly of our center!

That we should proceed Thebes,

Birther of tragedy,

With nothing learnt from the beauty,

And the terror.

 

The horror, and the splendor —

Of he born of womb and thigh. 

 

For, this center,

Drawing nearer to madness,

Suppresses his power —

That dreadful and dreaming eye.

 

Yes, 

We too draw nearer, 

nearer

   towards

      insanity.

 

Insanity not so bliss!  

 

And so, should we continue

To deny, 

Deny this god,

Spirit of Wine — 

 

Invite that burning passion of the wilderness,

Passions of that dreadful and dreaming eye.

 

Where Man shall wonder curiously,

Stupidly into the hills,

Blind to His ultimate destiny,

His ultimate destruction —

Hyper-consciousness!

 

And the flesh —

And the blood — 

The bone —

 

Offerings to Dionysus,

Orchestrator of the Bacchanalia. 

 

Awake! 

Drink from his chalice, Liber!

And behold the paradox, your subject!

Dissolving into maenadic will!

Collective madness! 

 

Untamed and Unbridled has found its place! 

 

And shall we never forget,

Or never neglect,

Or never dismiss 

That which gleams in the distance —

 

Belonging to the wild,

Belonging to the vine,

 

Belonging to that dreadful and dreaming eye