AS AGIAD LEONIDAS

Venus,

poignant evening star,

begins to exalt its splendor.

My daydreams,

meanwhile,

more and more resemble

withered violets.

November is misty

and in my thoughts, it etches

tortuous rivulets of sadness.

I have the impression

that I can no longer ask anything

from life.

In the good,

in the bad,

it has given me everything.

Tonight, I see my image

projected into the sky

like the hologram of an argonaut

in search of an indecipherable

golden fleece.

I have the feeling

that I have already run out of all the stops

on this alien planet.

It envelops me the torment of Golgotha,

of the holocaust,

for my sins.

Cosmic anxiety pervades me,

and to you, I ask,

Jesus,

how did you endure?

An icy mistral

has surrounded the soul.

I wish I had you here

to rekindle the flames.

How I miss

your smiles,

your caresses.

An eternal fire,

that lasting, I believed.

The afflatus of Venus,

so romantic,

has triggered in the heart

the melancholy

that stood silent.

A faint cry

is making its way from the eyes

like a rorid drop in April

and is lost,

among the evanescent penumbras

of ethereal dreaminess.

Every moment that passes,

I challenge the desert of the day

that has just passed,

and I attempt to recreate a homeostasis

with my mystical universe.

Only in the heath of torment

I can trace

the reflection of my image.

As Agiad Leonidas,

in the boiling Thermopylae,

facing an overwhelming enemy,

I await the apotheosis

of the sublime clash.

Venus,

from its glowing

nocturnal throne,

traps me

in the mistletoe of memories.

In a little while, the dawn will be,

and I invoke your name,

with serene dignity.

Thy face is a swirling,

fragrant billow,

that etches,

intoxicating,

the azure plains of heaven.

Uselessly,

I toil to centrifuge the inlay

of this melancholy,

which is,

tonight,

the only certainty.

Its tenderness

bittersweet,

cloaks the heart,

which again shudders

in desire

delirious,

in the torment

suave of you.