I call you, blessed, many-named, Bakchos,
manic god of the wine-press, with the horns
of a bull, redeemer of Nysa born
from flame, nourished in the thigh, then cradled
with a winnowing fan, destroyed by fire,
And then you began the mystery rites.
Nocturnal Eubouleus with a garland,
shaking a thyrsus. Silently growing
mature, three-natured hidden sprout of Zeus,
primal Erikepaios, the father
of the gods, and the son as well, you eat
raw flesh and with a scepter, madly dance,
leader of revels, to stir to frenzy
near the holy, calm triennial feasts.
Epaphrios, you burst out of the earth
in flames, a boy with two mothers. Haunting
the mountains, with your horned head, you are dressed
in the skin of a fawn, celebrating
yearly festivals, Paian with a spear
of gold under the folds of your robe, decked
with grapes, Bassaros, loving ivy vines,
with many girls and in cosmic order,
come, blessed one, to the initiates,
forever abundant and delighted.