Ganymede

Swift-footed bloom, gold-haired boyhood,
docile-bodied envoy of grace,
in lust I erred, soul backwards stood,
for what delinquence I embrace!

Pour out wine for my conviction,
from your olpe or walnut eyes;
upon the lyre, worn affliction,
Apollo's foresight alchemized:

a solemn hymn, distant, tendered
wounding mem'ry of nectared lips,
love's ideal in vain youth centered
and by my waning years eclipsed.

Theived, illicit honey splendour
cupbearer born of fleeced desire--
had you coyness to surrender
a new beloved would I acquire.

Aug. 05, 2025






The path into the light seems dark,
the path forward seems to go back,
the direct path seems long,
true power seems weak,
true purity seems tarnished,
true steadfastness seems changeable,
true clarity seems obscure,
the greatest art seems unsophisticated,
the greatest love seems indifferent,
the greatest wisdom seems childish.

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