Apollo's bow and lyre are not opposites held in uneasy truce — they are the same force moving in two directions simultaneously, and Heraclitus names this with unusual precision: *palintropos harmonia*, the fitting-together that turns back on itself. What is drawn apart becomes one with itself. Tension is not the problem awaiting resolution; tension is the structure that produces both the arrow's flight and the string's song.

The Delian statue complicates this further. Callimachus reads the Graces held in the right hand as prior to, and stronger than, the destructive bow held in the left — which sounds like reassurance, like a theology of mercy over wrath. But that reading softens what Burkert's passage actually presents. The plague and the healing hymn do not cancel each other; they share a master. The Graces are not a counterweight to the bow; they travel with it. Apollo does not become benevolent by setting the bow down. He remains the same figure — archer, healer, singer — and the *harmonia* is precisely that he is all of these at once, without the arrangement ever resolving into something easier to hold.

The soul that wants the lyre without the bow is already making a selection the god does not make.