He had planned to read. Two or three books lie open,
books by historians, by poets.
But he read for barely ten minutes,
then gave it up, falling half-asleep on the sofa.
He's completely devoted to books
but he's twenty-three, and very good-looking;
and this afternoon Eros penetrated
his ideal flesh, his lips,
an erotic warmth penetrated
his lovely flesh
with no ridiculous shame about the form the pleasure took....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem