"Where is now my strength of yesteryears?
Omphale wants me to be dressed
with her yellow silk tunic more blazing
than Helios' smile on the horizon.
Omphale wants me to wear her hoop earings,
shell bangles and blue-laced sandals.
She nicked my lion's hide, my bow,
my long spear and all the vigour of my limbs
now smelling of scented resins and the cedar
perfume that give off all the Lydian maids...
One morning in the vineyards of Tmolos,
the god Pan did bless us:
I was bound to her like a jolly slave
in the shadow of a golden parasol
we made love,
in the shadow of a giant eagle,
we made love...
Presently she forced me to be a woman
while hiding my odorous clobbers.
Now all her maidens comb my long hair,
rub my skin with ointments of wild flowers,
put lead powder on my face right
into the pure whiteness of a mortuory mask.
Where is my strength of yesteryears?
Shall I be able to kill the voracious Stymphalian birds?
I want to be at the spinning wheel no more
singing along the chorus of women in thrall.
I want to get up again with my furry hides
stinking of manure and bull entrails.
I want to culminate all the twelve tasks
that can make me an hero kissed by Hera.
Hera,
Hera,
the goddess who I will love forever
even if I keep burning on end
like deadwood in the freezing Hades."
(2006)
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