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Until next year, Odysseus;

go plant your oar

in inland soil,

return to Ithaca’s rocky shore

and rest from twenty years’ toil.

Enjoy a year of summer nights with Penelope,

of April hunting trips with your son

now blossomed into manhood,

of autumn walks with Eumaeus to watch your cattle run

lowing across the island’s wintering woods.

Until next year, Odysseus,

when we will dust you off

and crack you open, and you

will find yourself again a wanderer lost

and held on Ogygia Island, willing to do

whatever must be done to best

the suitors and hold Penelope in your arms.

And we will travel back with you,

and you will teach us something new

and something new and always something new.

But now, our long lost King of Ithaca, rest.