At the mouth of the river lives an old god.
I, seeing his grape-stained fangs and violet eyes,
His hair strewn with yellow and brown leaves,
Stick my head between his jaws and offer myself—
A sacrifice not unworthy of his rage.
“Oh, Scamander” (I always thus entreat him)
“You offer me a martyr’s death. And I fear
There are no other gods left, no more heathens.”

But Scamander is not a very wicked god.
He eats worms and the tires of old bicycles,
Not boys. He wishes he could see the nymphs again:
“Their hair was more or less like mine,” he says,
“But green”; and then he mutters something obscene.

I climb to the top of the Xanthian bank;
As the moon mounts the hill he cannot see me
But hears the low sound of my ancient three-speed.
The treading tires whisper comfort in the dark.