Waning Sun

The smell of golden hair,
Which descends in gentle curls.
The perfume fills the air,
And makes my poor head twirl.

The sun intrudes,
From the curtains the warmth floods,
Which heightens the smell,
And quickens the blood.

Sol, which livens all,
Lord of the heavens,
I am his ardent thrall,
In his heat, one leavens.

I take the Vital Poses,
Those which I know,
Sweat has the scent of roses,
Through skin bronze muscles glow.

The room gets warmer,
and I begin to squirm,
The body begins to waver,
The sinew’s no longer firm.

In my weakness,
I can barely move,
My figure cold and pallid,
My strength I cannot prove.

A gentle hand grasps the curtain,
A gliding motion obscures the sun,
I stifle a cry,
I his poor son.

Above me I see,
The pale full moon.
She looks down with tender pity,
My heart subdued under her rune.

The smell of golden hair,
Which descends in gentle curls.