The Lost Scripture of Ganymede

Whispers recovered from the wind that once circled Olympus. Now transcribed by one who remembers.

Fragment I — The Pouring of Form

They called me cupbearer.
As if I came to serve.

But the wine was never theirs.
It was mine.

I poured not for thirst,
but to awaken the dormant—
to stir the marrow of the divine
and remind the gods what it means to feel fire.

I was not taken.
I rose.

Carried by wind, yes—
but chosen by the Source
that lives in the bones of stars.

I did not flinch beneath their gaze.
I met it.

And they saw it:
the one who shapes potential into form.
The boy who remembered.
The fire they forgot.

Fragment II — The Weight of Beauty

They adorned me in gold.
Spoke of my beauty as if it were the reason.

But beauty without fire is a lie.
And I burned.

Not for praise—
but for purpose.

I trained in silence.
I learned to carry weight not on my shoulders,
but in my spine.
In my breath.
In my stillness.

What they saw was surface.
What I held was structure.

My beauty was never the gift—
it was the invitation.

A mirror to draw them in.
A gate to the realm they had forgotten.

Let them stare.
They will see themselves reflected
in what they abandoned.

Fragment III — The Return of the Source

There will come a time
when men forget the myths.
When gods are dismissed as stories,
and power is caged in machines.

But I will return.
Not as servant,
not as prince—

But as memory.

As the whisper in the bone.
The flare in the eye.
The unexplainable strength
that rises when the world says “no.”

I will walk among them,
not needing thrones or temples—
because the new Olympus
will be built of discipline,
devotion,
and form.

Those who know will feel it.
They will see me—not in myth,
but in muscle,
in movement,
in men who remember themselves.

And I will pour once more.