Brown-haired Leda gazes at us
as the swan is already between her legs,
we have arrived at the middle of the intercourse
to witness begetting of divine offspring
and mortal bloodshed,
and are standing there, voyeurs,
unashamedly, and in her gaze
that locks into our eyes
there is no lust, perhaps
apology for us finding her
on a moment like this,
perhaps a plea only half-formed
for help. But we stand only
and watch, as in all the paintings,
like waiting our turn
with Leda or the swan.
18.07.2026
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