The Painting On The Wall

While at first sight it gives us

a mutilated Spring,

all shades of green splash together and merge,

trying hard to bring something into form.

Like a small river in a grove where

a tender-faced nymph appeared

one morning

and walked smoothly into a pool

of algae,

dreaming of her own mortality.

 

Silence is on the canvas but loud in the myth

preserved inside a memory.

The nymph, her nudity on the river bed,

iridescent, the color

of mother-of-pearl.

Patroclus

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His body shimmered like an ancient sword that kept the darkness at bay.

Out there the war was imminent, Trojans had their ships ready,

But here in this room, he sat forlorn, hair unkempt,

face turned into the shadow that trembled and swayed.

The muscle on his back ridged, the muscle that had the gentle caress

Of Achilles, HIS Achilles, who were looking at him then,

desiring his body, while Eros played in the eyes that followed the curve

of his legs;

The red velvet that he rested on flowed like virgin blood; he must have been in pain.

If he could turn around and look at his eromenos, the world would stand still,

awed by his phosphorescent nakedness.

He knew the fate that awaited out there, tomorrow, as a warrior;

A golden urn would receive him, and his lover too, in a myth.

 

I’m looking at his body now with eyes of Achilles

and marvel at the flesh that sets my blood racing.

This divine flesh of a man would perish then, stabbed by a spear,

and will also perish now, if he still lives on as I and you and he,

labelled as an erotic crime that once united us all in Greece.

 

But of course, it was perhaps twenty centuries ago.

The Lost Musician

yes again I set foot on this arid land ,

my lyre broken and my lips dry,

after two thousand years, feels like an instant.

but I have grown old , like a man,

nobody knows me and certainly I don’t know the mankind

any more.

the silence of the years has inured me ,

the cracking of the world too intimidating.

But no, they don’t need my music.

my music, death, and my beloved Eurydice,

all belong to another era , even me ,

who could’ve rest in peace in allusions

of new religions, but no one knows music better

I’m proud to say, no one,

even though my calloused hands might tremble,

I can feel the divine notes running though my vein,

and my audience , once the titans, now peddlers

on a silent street ,

they and their prostitute companions, now my friends too,

they are good people, happy to hear my music,

and give me coins from time to time,

for love? for pity? I don’t care,

but I’m here, in this town where the shape

of existence eludes everyone,

a lot of merry-making, a lot of extravagant fun,

why not gather around me , and hear a different note then ,

for this fool is performing a song of ages old.