The extraordinarily handsome, equal in beauty to the Olympian gods themselves, Hyacinth, the young son of the king of Sparta, was a friend of the archer-god Apollo. Apollo often came to the shores of Eurota in Sparta with his friend and spent time there with him, going hunting on the mountain slopes, overgrown with dense forests, or doing gymnastics, in which the Spartans were so skilled.
Once, as a hot noon approached, Apollo and Hyacinth competed in heavy discus. The bronze disk rose higher and higher into the sky. Here, straining forces, the mighty god Apollo threw the disk. The disk rose high, to the very clouds, and, shining like a star, began to fall to the ground. Hyacinth ran to where the disk was supposed to fall. Rather, he wanted to take it and throw it to show Apollo that he, the young athlete, would not give in to the skill of throwing a discus, God. The disk fell to the ground, bounced off the blow, and struck the oncoming Hyacinth on the head with terrible force. Hyacinth fell to the ground with a groan. Scarlet blood gushed like a stream from the wound and colored the dark curls of the handsome young man.
A frightened Apollo came running. He leaned over his friend, lifted him up, put his bloodied head on his knees, and tried to stop the blood from the wound. But all in vain. Hyacinth fades. Darken Hyacinth’s eyes, which have always been so clear; he nods helplessly like a wreath of a field flower withering under the blazing midday sun. In desperation, Apollo cried out:
“You’re dying, my dear friend! Oh, misfortune, misfortune! You died at my hands! Why did I throw this disc! Oh, that I could atone for my guilt and go down with you to the joyless realm of the souls of the dead! Why am I immortal, why can’t I follow you!”
Apollo holds the dying friend tightly in his arms and his tears fall on Hyacinth’s bloody curls. Hyacinth died, his soul flew to the realm of Hades. Apollo stands over the body of the deceased and whispers softly:
“You will always live in my heart, beautiful Hyacinth. May the memory of you live forever in people.”
And here, as Apollo said, from the blood of Hyacinth grew a scarlet fragrant flower – the hyacinth (hyacinth), and on his wreath leaves was printed the sorrowful moan of the god Apollo. The memory of Hyacinth is alive in people; they celebrate it with celebrations during the days of hyacinths.
Exposed according to Ovid’s poem “Metamorphoses”.
