It happened in Alexandria, in the city of kings,
long after the kings had departed, when even their
memory was but founding stones for other stories,
crumbling themselves, that a certain elderly poet,
who had sacrificed his art for his quest of discreet
encounters of the flesh, died. His art had died for his
lust as long as he lived. Now, his own aged flesh
dead, like some ancient spirit awakening in a tomb,
his art found life. No longer would some delicate face
stop his poems from captivating minds. They had
the charm he lacked, a charm that needs no coins
to buy love. Like the kings of old, they left
Alexandria already victorious.
11.06.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti