The tale was done—but not the sisters’ scorn
for Bacchus; and their weaving still went on,
Latin [367–90]
the desecration of his holy day.
But—suddenly—they heard a roar invade
their room: a roaring—hoarse and harsh—of drums,
invisible, and flutes with curving horns,
and tintinnabulating gongs. The room
was steeped in saffron, myrrh—in sweet perfume.
What happened then was most incredible:
the wefts turned green; and all the hanging cloth
began to sprout with boughs, as ivy does;
a part became grapevines; where threads had been,
now twining tendrils grew; along the warp,
vine leaves began to sprout; the purple hue
that had adorned rich fabrics passed into
a purple hue that colored clustered grapes.
Indeed, the hour had come when it is hard
to say that it’s still day or it is dark,
when an uncertain light trespasses on
the boundary of night. And suddenly,
the walls began to tremble and the lamps—
oil-fed—to flare up, and the palace seemed
ablaze with ruddy flames, while phantom beasts
were roaring. Now the sisters rush to seek
some hidden corner, any place to keep
the flashing flames away; but smoke invades
the halls. And as the sisters try to hide,
their limbs—grown smaller now—are covered by
a membrane, just as thin wings cloak their arms.
Within the dark, they cannot see just how
they’ve lost their former shape. Though they can show
no feathered plumage, their transparent wings
sustain them; and when they attempt to speak,
the sounds they utter fit their shriveled shapes;
and each to each, they grieve in thin, thin squeaks.
They do not haunt the houses, but the woods;
since they detest the day, they fly by night.
It is from twilight that their name derives,
for bats are often called the Vesperites.
Latin [390–415]