The hero’s whistling for a battlefield,
for many deeds performed in public service.
Danae’s son is polishing his shield
and sees no dragon in the shiny surface.
But you’re a stunner. Why, Medusa, why,
a mirror draws you in and makes you squeamish?
I’m finishing my antisocial wine,
gone with the text eternally unfinished.
The same old plot: Narcissus and his pool,
his crown of curls the only golden rule
a river’s flow may be disposed to follow.
The hero’s old and dignified, alas,
still unimpressed by any looking glass.
He’s dead and buried when the war is over.
A sonnet for the stunners
© Copyright: Басти Родригез-Иньюригарро, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125022500528
Свидетельство о публикации №125022500528
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