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.