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The Weary Gladiator's Evening Words
I watched the foe's blood spurt and his two eyes grow dim;
and clemency forbidden by downturned thumbs' whim.
In service to the games, I have delivered death
to my opponent taking even his last breath.
Brisein, pleasantly discrete, nor curious
about so-called heroics, truly spurious:
in your gentle embrace and comforting caress,
I find sole shelter from the grimed arena's stress.
Of me, the betting sportsmen are inclined to say,
"This slender athlete can exploit the vulnerable
"weakness discoverable in almost all prey."
So speaking of me as some fearsome animal,
they do not grant that I might have a careful soul.
Of such cheap chatter I have had about enough.
But you come to me, welcomed, and so beautiful
with chosen words that soothe me from the roaring din
of Rome's streets. You drive off some fleshless skull's snide grin,
having silenced its shrill, relentless, piercing scream,
so that it no more srings from each remembered dream.
You smooth this day's edges before they harden rough
as you approach me, and your silken gown has slipped:
for lovemaking, you are well poised and well equipped---
your delicate body so slenderly masculine,
but your soul nuances your flesh to the feminine.
Starward
