ErosDarling, I make love to you on a page,
as I submerge into my darkness.Some have called it sex, some have called it
erotic love, its weapon is desire,
and its wounds cut deep into
my soul.My parents did it, my grandparents did it,
and my great grandparents did it too...Out of that darkness we were born like a flame!
It! It! It! It has no name,
it cannot be described in words,
profane or holy, defiled or sacred,
I could never understand its secret...Screwing, banging, fucking, balling, humping,
pumping, getting laid, it makes no difference
to me any more...Some are driven to madness, some to death,
some have sold their body and soul to possess
the secret of the invisible flame,
civilizations had crumbled because of it...No, Eros is the wingèd god, the highest form
of love, and all the passions cower in its presence...When the body sheds its clothes and shudders
with desire, tormented by the horrible longing,
when it needs to merge with another,
insane with fantasies and dreams
of that beautiful vision
that lifts the soul
above the prison of the vulgar and mundane,
above the mud and the excrement and the horror
of life—
that wingèd vision altogether holy and
pure!Yes, yes, yes! I say to it all
through all the suffering and tears,
that's what I always searched for
and longed for, gently making love to you
in my dreams,
sad, alone, tired, and cold,
trembling in my sheets
without you.December 27, 1990
--Alexander Shaumyan