There is a mountain in Greece,
and the Simurgh lives there.
She is the wisest bird that exists,
her intelligence so rare.
All come from far and near
to hear her opinion on their world,
as she has seen the beginning and the end,
while sitting still, with her wings furled.
She guards the Tree of Seeds,
one of two trees on the mount
but they say she doesn't speak,
she's telepathic, they recount.
Her visitors seek answers,
but there is no path direct,
they must go through a palace,
where inspiration is unchecked.
The palace of the muses,
home to poetry and song,
but it's not a destination,
which seems somehow very wrong.
The Simurgh's guests dodge dangers,
like the Maenads who eat men,
and then there is a snake, a python,
whose stare can freeze women.
But if they make it to the Tree of Seeds,
which contains a seed from every plant,
they can request an answer from the Simurgh,
which she may or may not grant.
She has lived an eon, more than once,
and been reborn several times.
And she says the truth is mere perception,
fluid, changing oftentimes.
And whether she does, or whether she doesn't,
the Muses will still compose,
they'll write lyrics and they'll write odes,
they'll write poetry and prose.
Because these creatures will live on
until the world ceases to exist,
it's just that sometimes, in our busy lives,
they fade into the mist.