for Irina Yermakova

O famous guard before a nameless garden,
bearded, shaggy, hugely tall, with pelts that fall  
over your enormous shoulders, much broader
            than an oxen’s back, 

goat-legged, big-butted, poised on cloven hooves, 
on your head a basket rests between your horns,
your right hand on the handle, your left dangling
            a cluster of grapes.
 
Why does sadness strain your brow, O Silenus?
Why the gloomy visage and dejected mien?
Ah! Tell me! Who’s the one who bluntly stripped you
            of what’s neither shame

nor a sin but an appendage that’s precious—
your exalted prick! Who? And to right what wrong?
Could any of your escapades really be
            considered a crime?

Spurned by a herd of formerly timid nymphs
and forgotten, whether you chase or disdain
to give chase and let those rude mockers remain—
            isn’t it the same?
 
For after they’re trapped, you’ll have to do battle,
and what could you possibly bring to the fight?
You can’t fill their wet laps with your stump—not in
            the least, not since you’re

the one who’s lost most. Lewd eunuchs are useless.
There’s not a man who thinks to stand sans his blade.
And so you’re dismissed to a museum, for  
Muses to abuse.