Ithaca, with all its suitors, fails to hinder
the fury of my soul, when finished with its prolonged tours,
as it is mad with lust to see your body on all fours,
aching hard for fire, burning into cinder.
Homer must have known the sound of moans like yours
because, when in romantic choir, your gasp of released air
composes siren lullabies and songs like solemn prayer
driving me to crash my ship against your shores.
“Please, oh please, my king,” my ego yearns to hear
until the hillsides ring with passion and inspired cries.
The gods cannot prevent, despite all of their meddling tries,
our reunion as I’d reach you anywhere.
