From where you sit tonight,
I know you can see Eros
outlined against
the evening sky,
and I know you are thinking
his were the hopes,
the dreams, you hunted by.

And as the light fades
down the avenue,
and the moon comes up
between the trees,
I know you are dreaming
of the life you own,
the love you will never need.

O my friend,
why should antiquity treat us so,
and age allow us to wither,
and why when our lives
fade fast as quicksilver,
must we deliver
the cup of ourselves.

Friend, whose face
was fit for Gods to gaze on,
whose eyes once lit
a thousand Olympic fires,
a heart fractured and condemned to stone,
angels guard blood roses
round your tomb.