# The Soul Of A Century/Akte

AKTE
All is quiet now . . They left . . and here he lies In his own blood that cooled and set in clogs, The blood that ran, and blends as into one With the purplish rags outstretched beneath his head. How still he lies, appearing as if dreaming, A bluish light still glistens beneath the lashes As of one who partly sheathes his eyes while thinking Of some verse or rhyme he plans to write. My Lord . . . or may I just say “Nero.” Or “Lover”, I your Akte from Attalea?
But yesterday, no, yet this very morning I stole about your palace like a shadow But to behold the smile upon your features . . . And now your head is reclining in my lap, And no one here to question my possession. And you alone, you cannot free yourself . . . Alone I have you, as I have always wanted Alone with you, with not a soul around No one but I, your Akte . . . . You are not breathing? Well, what of that? You are mine, I need not share You now with others . . . you will never leave me No-one will dare to rob me of you, my treasure . . . .
When first you passed me by, I know for certain It was Destiny that ordered you to look And questioningly gaze into my eyes. Perhaps you dimly felt that someday I will be more To you than all the people of your land. More than your own breath, yes more than life itself. All fled from you and I alone remained. They spoke so ill of you and sought to judge And torture you according to their customs . . . . I failed to grasp it . . . Your look, so sweet and tender, Your voice, whose softness sank to my soul’s depths, Your wondrous locks, now equalled but by Phoebus’. Why did they curse and drive you to the by-paths That lead to Hades’ depths? . . . . They did not know, And I who knew, I merely gazed at you with that same look With which a flower gazes towards her sun, And does not seem to care that this very sun For other flowers shines, by others is beloved. Yes, it was I, who could have found their errors For I knew best, they did not understand. But none would stop to hear a slave’s complaining And why should they? . . . Your early burning kisses Fell fresh upon my unaccustomed lips While your heart-beats blend with my own frightened beating, Both hearts astir with love’s first flaming passion. And now, by God’s own graces I am favored To offer you my love’s most painful rite, To close your eyes . . . . A splendid cloak I know of The one you wore each festive New Year’s Day, Your cloak of white with the gold embroidered flowers. In this, dead Phoebe, I will softly place you Upon a pyre of sweetly scented woods, your ashes I will lay at rest, in honor
Within your family tomb . . . What? Will they let me? You are dead, and hatred only follows To the gates that lead to Hades. My beloved You would be moved to wonder now, to hear that one Should dare to question the right to bury you, You! . . Emperor! . . . The Lord of men! . . . Their ruler. Yes, that will be your final service Akte, The final means of serving your former master, The final homage, offered by a flower To her lifeless sun, and after that Poor Akte? . . . Is there for you an “After?”
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.