The Pactolus River Still Runs

Lyrics

They call it the Sart Çayı now. Just a name on a map. You can stand on its bank today, right outside the ruins of Sardis. Put your hand in the current. It’s cold, from the snowmelt on Mount Tmolus. Let the fine, brown silt run through your fingers. Wait for it. Look closely where the sun hits the water. There. A shimmer. Electrum. A fleck of what's left. The Pactolus doesn't remember the king. The water has no memory of Croesus, his face, his fear, his name. It only remembers the long way down from the mountain. It only knows the weight of the metal it carries. The oldest story. The quietest song. I can almost see the hands of the Lydian miners. Twenty-six centuries ago. Kneeling in this same mud, panning this same cold water. Looking for this same impossible shimmer. Their breath misting in the morning air. Filling a leather pouch with star-dust. Taking this river-glitter to the new mint. Pressing a roaring lion’s head into the soft, pale gold. The first promise made solid. The first coin. The Pactolus doesn't remember the king. The water has no memory of Croesus, his face, his fear, his name. It only remembers the long way down from the mountain. It only knows the weight of the metal it carries. The oldest story. The quietest song. Herodotus wrote it down. He said, "gold-dust which comes down from Mount Tmolus." He tried to fix it in words. The myth says Midas washed his curse away in these waters, turning the sand to gold. A king’s terrible prayer answered by the river. All that power, all that greed, just another story the water carried away to the sea. What is an empire to a current? What is a treasury to the source? The king is dead. The empire is dust. The staters are in museums, under glass, their lions worn smooth. But the river… the river still runs. Still carrying its whisper of gold.