I once heard a man recite some lines,
He named it agapethos,
Expressing love for his lover's bosoms,
And the thickness of her hips.
Yet, I pondered the beauty lost,
In the sunset within her eyes,
The hair, darker than the night, now amiss,
And her smile, outshone by moonlight's demise.
When did the lovers inside of poets die?
I wondered, is he truly her lover,
If he disregards her enchanting smile?
Can one be a lover if the body's the sole find?
What becomes of love,
When time weaves its threads,
And bodies fade, yet souls remain
When did the lovers inside of lovers die?