Actaeon
ACTAEON
Dreaming mortal being transfigured into hunter Actaeon
As this chaste morning's light in purity brims in her breast,
Her soft skin glistens like silken screen on the flesh,
On the shoulder the mystery of her beauty looms over her chest,
In the nipples , where in passion's bloom the eyes come to a rest,
A desire to sleep with her comes as Pygmallion's ivory maiden, in whose breast the goddess of love had once breathed life to hold the skilful sculptor,
Who had refrained from love of mortal women,
In love's eternal arrest.
In this forest surrounded by the hills,
Like an earthen pot that never fills,
Where, like a naked nymph, the virgin forest fills its rills,
In the murmuring streams she tilts the pitchers filled with human will,
Inside an inner void where silences hush,
A trembling thirst for beauty and love bubbles, burbles in the mind as a stream of desire flows in gush.
Like the weeping willow's branching leaves I wish to reach to her knees,
Like Pygmallion I wish to embrace her and kiss,
Like polished pebbles, shells and fish,
I wish to touch her feet as many times as I wish,
In her body leaning on the rock in the stream, that drags my mind in a bed in a mysterious sleep,
I wish to worship her beauty in flesh and blood,
Where in my heart an altar for love I keep.
In this day-dreaming in a pink couch where Galatea sleeps,
The body bends and touches her with its lips,
The fingers again and again strokes her as if to sink in the softness of her limb,
As her nakedness burns as incense,
The surface of the flesh, yielding to the pressure of the fingers, sinks in a bewitching whiteness beyond the depth of the veins,
In the vast expanse of the mind love expands like a flame,
The heart beats like a hunter as well as a hunted game.
Here as her eyes kindle and spark ,
Like the scented smell of the musk the scents of her flesh me attract,
As the ivory maiden of art,
With passion and love of Tyrian blood,
An amorous delight ruptures,
A passion's pomegranate bursts,
The seeds covered with the redness of the pulp drop as drops of eternal lust.
On the marble stone where she bathes,
The light flutters like wings of bathing birds in a lake,
The water springs from the rock ,
Stoops in the stream ,
And becomes one with the vibrating blaze.
Immersed in the water,
In the reflections on the treacherous waves, that always break in the touch of the rays,
Mirroring the streamlets in the breasts that change in directions as they run from the neck to the navel in search of ways,
Holding the motion of the water and wind in the naked flesh's writhing charm,
Like bathing beauty seizing the passionate eyes in an insatiable burn,
She holds my eyes,
I fail to turn.
Like a stag distracted by the bathing sounds of the silvery maid,
As an illusory deer with the dappled skin moves in the sun,
I see the maiden or the Muse ,
Watch like a hunter,
In front of the naked flesh both as the deer and the hunter I feel one.
In shades where the warmth of the rays extincts,
And the cool breeze nature's happiness brings,
Under the feet the rustling leaves awaken the sounds fallen in a dream,
The ineffable desire wafts in the wind,
In a tranquil stillness the rocks prostrate on the path where the shadows walk on the stream,
As air stirs the lust ,
The solitary gusts of wind pant, gasp, expire, and touch the breaths in sudden jumping bursts,
The chest thrusts forward and the lungs inflate,
In a lightning quickness a fear returns to her face.