A: My king: you might have kept me, as a bird,
Plumed in Doric gold, in duty caged.
H: My God: whose statued beauty never aged,
Who stirred in all my kingdoms mystery…
A: Our lusts outshone them all, the empire’s sun:
Our love, alas, might threaten history.
Must I drink the pity of the Nile,
To drown us out? To silence everyone?
H: Yet even as you float, a song so silent,
Lily, tender-white, I’ll weep that river
Raw with tears. I’ll keep a God of you,
For my body’s yearning praises to deliver.
A: They’ll worship me no more than morning dew.
H: You are my morning sun. A slave divine,
The boy’s whose body’s temple once was mine.
A: I drown, then: and bow to you, who once was mine.
Requested by a friend and follower.