The Satyrs Celebrate the Autumnal Equinox

When golden leaves begin to fall,
And shadows stretch both thin and tall,
Pan wakes within the wooded glade,
His pipes a song both wild and staid.

The air is crisp with earth and fire,
The hills alight with red desire,
He dances where the forest sighs,
Between the sun and darkening skies.

The equinox, a fleeting breath—
Not yet life, not fully death—
Pan plays to mark the sacred seam,
Of harvest's end and hunter's dream.

So tread with care through autumn's door,
Where Pan still walks the forest floor.

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