He radiates confidence,
Naked,
His body exposed,
To the elements of the forest.
Barefoot the young satyr stands,
His round toes,
Against the flattened earth.
This satyr has stopped,
Halting to rest,
Against the remnants of a tree.
He leans against the thin stump.
Its branches,
Long gone,
Broken,
Leaving only the base.
His smooth skin glistens in the sun.
The light hits his body,
Muscles chiseled,
Allowing the definition in his stomach,
To be seen from afar.
Hair slicked back,
It lightly brushes against his back,
Showing his delicate features,
Thin lips and almond-shaped eyes,
An oval face.
Long ears almost concealed,
Pointed at the tip.
Beautiful is his face,
Youthful and mischievous,
His thoughts wander.
Cradling the fruit,
He holds in his arms,
Swindled in a cloth.
Grapes and apples,
The fruit so heavy that it drops,
Almost falling onto the ground.
As he stretches his right hand,
Towards the open sky,
His stiff arm,
Hangs in the air.
He stares in awe,
He tilts his head,
To admire the imperfect fruit.
He grips the apple,
The soft skin of it,
Held between his hands.
The sweet juice,
Concealed within the round tender skin.
In staring at the sweet beauty,
His eyes,
In a trance,
As if seduced,
About to be overcome with joy.
(05/26/2019, Giovane Satiro, Il sec dc da originale del tardo ellenismo, collez. albani)
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