We met in fair Arcadia,
As seedlings in the vale,
Transformed new from those gentle greens,
To shepherds of the dale.
Under the sun and cloudless sky,
We walked over the sod,
Searching for tender, soft-mouthed beasts,
For flocks meek, mild, unflawed.
In pastureland we spent our days,
With drowsy sheep nearby,
Playing our lutes, harps, drums, and flutes,
For grass that did not die.
We lived in this idyllic place,
Far from the rot of towns.
In our pure meadows we picked flowers,
And wove them into crowns.
Tribute we paid to our one god,
Three lambs and a bouquet,
Blessed he our land with subtle rain,
And kept discord away.
But even he could not prevent,
Our latent jealousy,
Which unpristined our precious plains,
Ruptured serenity.
You killed my flocks and plagued my crops,
And planted in me seeds,
Of sorrow, spite, and misery:
You covered me with weeds.
You did me wrong and in me grew,
A darkness just like yours,
That gave me strength to bide, endure,
And ready for the wars.
You cast a torch into my field,
Laughing as it burned,
But I had fire just like you,
And wrath that you had earned.
These former perfect, quiet shepherds,
Did revel in this scourge,
Anger bloomed in our savage souls,
From which grace we did purge.
Our paradise we turned to soot,
Will not recover now,
For it suffered a mortal wound,
And life it won't allow.
From ash and smoke we were born new,
And walked back out from Hell,
We turned away, did not look back,
And bid us each farewell.
My dear old friend, do not despair,
See me as I see you:
Know you ruined my Arcadia,
And I destroyed yours too.
