Atalanta’s Chase

She tore through dawn where shadows wake,
Leapt through mist where rivers shake.
Mountains shivered at her stride,
Forests gasped, valleys sighed.

None could match her feet of flame,
No boast or bribe could stake a claim.
The boar of Calydon, tusks like spears,
Felt her sharp arrow pierce its fear.

Through tangled bramble, thorn, and vine,
Her heartbeat drummed a rapid sign.
Hunters stumbled, breathless, spent,
While she ran on, her will unspent.

Three golden apples, bright as sun,
Were tossed to stall the maiden’s run.
Hippomenes, with cunning art,
Played a trick to win her heart.

She glanced, she paused, the fruit beguiled,
Yet even then she scarcely smiled.
Her legs like lightning, eyes like fire,
Her spirit leapt, ascending higher.

Across the plain, through glade and glen,
She fled, untamed, beyond all men.
Earth itself seemed to yield and bend,
To carry her where paths extend.

No chain, no vow, no mortal plea,
Could halt the river of her speed.
Wind bowed low, trees gave way,
As Atalanta made them sway.

Her footfalls sang a thrilling tune,
A hymn beneath the silver moon.
Echoes raced through hills and streams,
Her flight the pulse of waking dreams.

And when the finish line was near,
Gods themselves drew close to hear.
A hush fell deep, the moment caught,
As fate was sealed, as victory wrought.

She ran through story, stone, and time,
A living legend, fierce, sublime.
No victor’s crown, no earthly throne,
Could claim the girl who ran alone.

Through myth, through art, through poet’s pen,
Her tale endures beyond all men.
Atalanta, swift and free,
A flame, a storm, eternity.