When one of them passed through the market place <br />of Seleucia, toward the hour that night falls <br />as a tall and perfectly handsome youth, <br />with the joy of immortality in his eyes, <br />with his scented black hair, <br />the passers-by would stare at him <br />and one would ask the other if he knew him, <br />and if he were a Greek of Syria, or a stranger. But some, <br />who watched with greater attention, <br />would understand and stand aside; <br />and as he vanished under the arcades, <br />into the shadows and into the lights of the evening, <br />heading toward the district that lives <br />only at night, with orgies and debauchery, <br />and every sort of drunkenness and lust, <br />they would ponder which of Them he might be, <br />and for what suspect enjoyment <br />he had descended to the streets of Seleucia <br />from the Venerable, Most Hallowed Halls.<br /><br />Constantine P. Cavafy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/one-of-their-gods/
