Atys

 

Atys

 

A philosophy school in Phrygia,

Once had a religious idea:

A god known as Atys,

(Some called him Adonis),

With origins not at all clear,

 

Was born, so the mysteries say,

In December, the 24^th day,

And he was pulled free,

From his mother, a tree;

For the gods, it’s said, turned her that way.

 

I’ve hardly perused, I confess;

Of his life I know little, or less,

If you wish to explore,  

Let a book tell you more,

It’s his death that I here now address.

 

Of accounts of his death there’re two;

The first says a boar gored him through,

In the other, he’s dead;

Self-emasculated,

(Yes indeed, what a strange thing to do).

 

The pine, beneath which he was found,

By Cybele, was pulled from the ground,

Tree and god, she then gave,

To the care of a cave,

But Atys to death wasn’t bound.  

 

For three months, his body lay well,

Decaying not, as when he fell,

Then upwards he rose,

Now Heaven he knows,

Where angels and righteous souls dwell.

 

On leaving, he gave to the tree,

His spirit’s immortality,

The tree, in his name,

Symbolic became,

And passed into our history.

 

And though this short tale may appear,

In clarity, wanting, I fear,

I hope you’ll agree,

Or at least partly see,

There's a Christmas tree link with Phrygia.