You see a woman holding a chalice, and think, “she looks proud.”
They say that a chalice is the woman’s weapon, or her gift.
The gift she brings to the lost traveler, burning her bare feet on the sands.
The weapon she bears upward with a steady hand, her cloak on the wind like a standard.
And what you do not know
Is that she squeezed herself for you, drop by ruby drop,
Into her chalice.
On the wings of swans I came, my love, On the wings of swans I came.
With my beating pomegranate heart, In my outstretched hand.
But the river’s dry in the vale, my love, With not a drop to drink.
In the desert the starlight stabs the sky, And dead water sighs in the sea.
You wrung the necks of my swans, my love, You picked clean their fair white breasts.
I cannot find my way back, my love, There’s no one to carry me.
Your tables are set for a feast, my love, And your stone halls are bright.
So stretch out your gentle hand, my love, And take this pomegranate heart.
