You, you call yourself a woman,
passing through the wither of time,
the silver of the moon, the glaze of the sun.
You get me asking for more, and more wine.
You carve words like a sculpture
and find gold in a dark mine.
You feed on my soul like a vulture –
rest your heart at a distant shrine.
Sharpen your knife not,
for your words are enough
to corrode me and rot
and make me ragged and rough.
You can kiss me and see me bloom;
touch me and see me smile.
Or furnish with your hands the much dear tomb,
and bury me with the Pharaohs on the banks of Nile.