Antique

Antique

Gracious
son of Pan! Around your forehead

crowned with flowerets

and with laurel, restlessly roll

those precious balls, your eyes.

Spotted with brown lees, your cheeks are hollow.

Your fangs gleam. Your breast is like a lyre,

tinklings circulate through your pale arms.

Your heart beats in that belly where sleeps the double sex.

Walk through the night, gently moving that thigh,

that second thigh, and that left leg.

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