Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

Gone are the days of heady innocence,
Of joyous chases in those verdant glades.
Our stillness flowed, released from limerence,
Denying naught amid the colonnades.

By gods we swore and by their will we went,
Yet you made habit of obscuring face.
Each hour felt like day by heaven sent,
Caught in a net and pinned down into place.

On what conviction did you stake your faith?
What promises could steer astray your heart?
And what possessed you to descend—a wraith
Reaping a callous harvest—then depart?

Did I mislead you? Place on you some tax?
If so, you’d be an honest man to say,
“Loved you I did, but now my love is lax;
O, let me go, and cherish yesterday.”

Virilis is a sense that goes and comes,
Entangled always in a debt of might.
Decide then to be mighty! Beat your drums!
Yet you are cowering somewhere in fright.

O, love, you must not fear my armies’ tread.
Unfurl your flag, stand tall, do not play dead.