Cycnus, the son of Sthenelus, had witnessed
this strange change. He was kin to Phaethon
but, even more, was linked by deep affection.
He put aside his kingship—he, in fact,
was ruler of the tribes and mighty towns
of all Liguria. He went to weep
along the Po’s green banks, where now the three
sisters of Phaethon were new-made trees.
But as he wept, his voice grew faint, his hair
was hid beneath white plumage, and his neck
grew longer, stretching outward from his chest.
A membrane knit together reddened fingers;
wings wrapped around his sides; a pointed beak
replaced his mouth. For Cycnus had become
a swan—a strange new bird, who does not trust
his wings to seek the sky of Jove, as if
that bird recalled the cruel lightning bolt
the god had hurled. And so the swan seeks out
still pools and broad lakes; hating all that’s fiery,
he chooses water—fire’s contrary.