Death of the Last Centaur

Inspired by Émile Antoine Bourdelle’s sculpture at Allerton Park, Monticello, Illinois, which I happened upon on a hike one fine morning.

A warm spring morning.

A ripple of breeze

cast a shimmer of sunlight

through leaves at the tops of the trees.

Cottonwood seeds danced in the air.

The Centaur stepped out of the forest’s shadow

and stood at the edge of the glen.

No bow in his hands, no sword in his sheath—

He’d had his fill of bloody battles long ago.

Only a lyre in his arms.

For all to hear—both man and beast—

from his lyre arose a tune

of harmony, balance, and peace.

Animals grazed in the woods,

bathed in the sound of the lyre.

Children played on the banks of the river,

wanting nothing more than to enjoy the day.

The Centaur, last of his kind, stood proud as he played—

a tear upon his cheek,

for this would be his final day.

Change was in the air,

he could hear it in his tune.

The ambitions of men would alter the land forever.

Hordes of men gathered to claim the valley,

not realizing that they, too, were creatures of the land—

which had more claim on them

than they would ever have on it.

Their imagined dominion,

meaningful only to themselves.

The battle cry came.

Blood began to spill.

Many a man and beast were slain.

Through it all, the Centaur played

with all his heart and all his soul.

He felt no fear. He’d had his day.

Peace had passed.

Man’s ambition had dawned.

The Centaur, taking his final breaths,

on his knees with lyre in hand,

played one last song.