Capitoline Museum



Pale, smooth, and quietly serene,
He stands upon his pedestal.
Shadows cast upon his chest
By outstretched wings that could never hold his weight.

Those nugatory appendages,
each feather lovingly carved 
By the delicate hand of a craftsman 
Lost to the ages, whose name we will never encounter.

He must long to fly,
This unclad figure,
Son of a goddess most beautiful,
But with his wings a heavy stone burden he will never soar.

His bare arms delicate and graceful,
His sturdy legs just as exquisite.
An unblemished torso
With a pallor that will never fade even in Sol’s harsh light.

How lovely he is,
This agent of desire
Who grasped the exiled poet 
In his boyish hands and never let him go.

Diana’s bane,
This innocent figure
With a weapon not unlike her own
But with a purpose that she will never approve.

His quiver rests on a nearby tree,
Set by the wayside and forgotten.
The only item around for him to wear,
And yet this harbinger of affection will never don it.

He follows in his mother’s footsteps,
That maiden of the sea foam green.
His curly head bent, focused on his work,
Forever stringing a bow that will never notch an arrow. 

Who is he searching for?
That unlucky fellow
Who waits to receive your blessing,
Though they will never know that you have intervened.

O Amor, child of love and war, 
When will you begin your work?
Your unseeing eyes show no hurry,
And it seems as though you will never tire from your task. 



(Capitoline Museum, Cupid Stringing his Bow, Roman copy of Greek Original by Lysippos)

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