Hymn To Pan

Hymn to Pan Before Morocco was Roman, you see, the music of Pan was African jazz. At the Wednesday night prayer meeting the percussion discussion of Mingus goes on, getting' all jumpy and sweaty inside. This is the time of the passionate stranger, of bullfights and trumpets, of magic and lust. You should see that goat high steppin' playin' his pipes for centaurs and satyrs while rivers of wine and buckets of beer splash the maenads snaking with joy. Seven black dancers leap on a cliff, five different rhythms make them alive: It's music that spears them, one at a time! One says “It's crazy,” one says “It's love,” three new rhythms awaken the dead! Fertility spirits moan and shout as flutes and oboes evoke ancestors. A soprano echoes a baritone's wail. The sky man wears a cloak of feathers, the earth woman wears a skirt of grass. A neighboring tribe joins the fray entering caves with torches aloft, wearing masks of stallions and mares. The god who grants all desires arrives riding a winged golden lion as twenty eight drummers climax at once. I can believe that joy is infectious, I can believe that music is Life. I'm going to jump and roar my approval she's going to ride a broad chested centaur the people will tussle a long hungry python when Pan calls us in the middle of the night.