Ithaca, with all its suitors, fails to hinder

the fury of my soul, when finished with its prolonged tours,

as it is mad with lust to see your body on all fours,

aching hard for fire, burning into cinder.

Homer must have known the sound of moans like yours

because, when in romantic choir, your gasp of released air

composes siren lullabies and songs like solemn prayer

driving me to crash my ship against your shores.

“Please, oh please, my king,” my ego yearns to hear

until the hillsides ring with passion and inspired cries.

The gods cannot prevent, despite all of their meddling tries,

our reunion as I’d reach you anywhere.