and days and months. Years have passed and I met you
too late. Too late to call you my own. How we have grown
and it is true. Red and purple are the flowers
that grow every season of crisis.
Tell me, have you met the goddess Isis?
I am no Isis, no miraculous woman, and know no magic
Charmed by my absurdity, you forget that I am tragic.
Overhead in this evening sky the eternal awaits-
Closed is my perception and thus forbidden are the gates.
Seconds melt into minutes and hours pass me by
When I look into your face which alone gazes at the sky.
Yet every moment reminds me of my human imperfections, my defects are many-
broken are the strings of my lyre, missing the intensity of
desire. I wish I could emit
a stream of perpetual knowledge
or fascinating wit.
But all I see and you see are the imprints of my flaws.
Slender are the hands of Isis, grubby are my paws.
You look at me in recognition and often think you know
the conception of woman, the appearance that I show
is mistaken for reality. You who can penetrate
into the depth of things, must realize it is too late.
You see the illusion of wings and the mirage of flight
My broken strains of music reverberate through the night.
The seconds are ticking by and we had erupted into song
where the purple flowers grow and the birds
sing along. You knew my voice was harsh though
tender was my heart. We would soon grow apart-
and knowledge of this crisis
Made you call me songstress, a beautiful Isis.