Ah, the nettles of desire, the sleeplessness, the gnawing of regrets in my skull. These are emotions we can not share but must suffer alone till dawn, the dipper proving we are children.
I believe that we, as human beings, prove nothing: there is really nothing to prove except kindness and decency: all else is more illusion.
I take my harp but there are no words to accompany the notes. I urge Atthis to sing: play, darling, help me forget...let me see your face as I love to see it. Move your head with that fragile alacrity. Stretch your bare legs under your dress.
As I open the shutters in the morning, I miss him...the ocean has grown much, much wider.
My favorite olive tree says nothing to me.
P
Alcaeus wrote me:
“I know I can help you. Come over for the day. Courage, friend.”
The note repulsed me. What could he know of Phaon, of man’s cleanliness and beauty!
I did not answer. Instead, I climbed the hills with Atthis and Anaktoria, to lay a wreath at an altar that has been our shrine for a while.