The Woman

The Woman You are a goddess without a shrine The mystery we all adore. The woman. That myth in your look Which men gaze in awe To see your face and gape in waves In whom, resides the world we live. The woman. The wisdom embroidered of your age Sad not or whistle for wrinkles in your face Because in that wrinkles are my kindles. The woman. With whom strangeness lives and bore But whom the envy of men abhor But you she treats with love. The woman. Beginning of life with death adores The conqueror of men and his bluffs The fertility he envies. The woman, To whom affection snoozes and oozes Yet in passion, the man made whore To whom forgiveness made a goddess. The scent of love you are Woman, a goddess without a shrine.