It was a pleasure watching her lying on the altar
of, once holy and today a famous building,
in a simple, white, knee-long dress.
Nowadays I'm feeling sorry for standing behind a marble pillar
only to watch, hidden by the shadow, her gentle body,
so maiden-like and white, but still crimson in its face.
(Left outstretched, and other leg bent in its knee,
with slightly elevated body and her palms backwards, pressuring the stone plate,
as support. With her head reclined - she was.)
I would approach her then, maybe, but it was because of her hair.
It was. And it was more than enough.
But, floating as it was(without help of a breeze)
it decided to bury my step
softly singing a refrain to me:
"Do not corrupt me."
(Eyes wide open, but still with half-slumbering eyelids,
stopped in my pace, with a hand strecthed upward, leaning to the pillar,
and slightly opened lips, as if I would say a word - I was.)
Oh, how bitter became the curse when I grasped
that it was not a weakness in my legs, but legs in the marble.
By passing with her hand over my face
and with her fingers through the ones of my stretched hand,
spellbound, she didn't even noticed that in front of her,
a live man is standing, nowise a sculpture made of stone.
(And after numerous years, I'm seeding violets with my free hand
singing to them so they could blossom as beautiful
as when she was here.)