Look, I have the red face
of an old satyr. What a winy
colour of life lived to the hilt,
unredeemable by now. Empty glasses.
Yet I pick grapes with false glee
and get drunk on the wine
of the years.And I reel, groping
at walls of darkness, never touching
the apricot body of any woman,
because I am no longer in love.
A wasted time
of life this is, for floundering about.