Don’t you dare to lean on me,
For my bones are dry.
Don’t you dare to cry a sea,
For my marrows are wry.
You ask one who’s trapped in sand
To run your world, while she’s drowning in hers.
“Come on, let’s make a fairyland,”
Said you who she wants to curse
With speech in honey and milk.
To entice with a politician’s promises,
My tongue my ancestors’ silk;
But what, then, are the purposes?
Please learn from the role
That priced glistening coal
With centuries of wait: a mere symbol
of true love so civil.
So then shouldn’t the amour
symbolized worth millenniums, if not a whole lot more?