Winter Moon

They’re stingier now, the rowdy boys, in pitching stones
that rattle your shuttered windows;
they don’t deprive you of your sleep; and hugging
the threshold, the door stays shut

that used to swing so easily
on its hinges. Less and less do you hear now:
“While I, who am yours, am dying all night long,
you, Lydia, are sleeping?”

You will age, in turn, and, spurned in the lonely alley,
you’ll wail at the arrogance of paramours
while the rising Thracian wind rages
in the dark of the moon.

Then you’ll feel how the blazing heat
and lust that maddens mares
will rage around your ulcered liver,
not without a sob

that excited boys take more delight
in green ivy than drab myrtle,
and dedicate sere leaves to the east wind,
winter’s companion.