An apartment sitting high on a hill
overlooking the city and sunset;
he cradles the boy against his side
as they lay thrown across the floor.
This boy, so innocent--so full of youth
and angst against all the world.
So passionate in his belief that
he is loveless and not beloved.
Shota, shota; the word whispers in his mind
and he knows how the world would see them;
a man of twenty, a boy of twelve
lovers of a kind--and yet, not at all.
Fully as one, a unit unbreakable,
they suffer for their bounds and hold steady;
what others see as perversion or dishonor
they view through the glow of secret traditions.
So young, this boy, to understand
all the world's evils and pain;
the man cares for him as only HE can
and holds tightly for fear of heartbreak.
To protect, to serve, to love--
in that order, he is told;
but what is the magick of this boy's presence
that has so re-arranged his thoughts?
Shota; the man knows what the boy does not;
that this harmless infatuation--truly named
cannot be faked or tricked or lied to;
such is the way of the love they share.
So, though his lover is as of yet
too young and too shattered to commit,
he waits with patient diligence--
slave to his master's heart and will.