Poor Pan,
Sits on the hillside,
Above the green valley;
Plays his pipes
But no animals come.

He was once
God of the forest,
Protector of animals;
Revered by lovers,
Who venerated
Animalistic lust.

Then demonised
By a church that
Frowned upon
What comes naturally,
When the one God
Came to chase out the many.

Pan was good.
The Church made him evil.
Synonymous with Satan,
Whom they depicted
With his hooves and horns;
Misunderstanding
His nurturing nature.

And now,
His hills are bare,
His trees felled,
His animals killed,
His valleys concreted,
His pipes drowned out,
By the roar of mankind.

So cry
For poor Pan,
Alone on his hillside;
His seductive song,
Growing fainter
With each passing year;
To soon die out
And disappear.