To Aphrodite
Wicked mother of Eros, that mischievous imp,
Why have you deceived me so cruelly?
Why have you dressed in such a guise?
Why have you doomed all of my love?
You feign the semblance of my huntress,
But time has told the scars of treachery.
Now I see through all your trappings.
Jealousy has made your form to that
Which you hate, so as to pursue spite;
And your luminous hair has a raven's colour,
Your leather, sunned skin has a milky hue,
Your firm form has a melancholy splendour.
Jealousy has made you, born of frothy wave,
Imitate the divine mistress of the sea.
It is an ironic event in all men's eyes.
To stoop to admire the snow-white lily,
And feel crimson liquid run from unseen thorns.
Do you, rose, rejoice at our pricking?
Do you enjoy our painful disillusionment?
Do you celebrate such ruinous machinations?
If only such impurity could be uprooted.
-Neill Torna
