Beneath deep roots, without sun,
she is down cast, fine golden hair
covering dead half of her face.
She is downcast, drinking cold wine,
which her many grey servants never
let empty, or grow warm.
Looking at the floor, even that blue
and good eye, without tears but sighs,
as the dead come and come.
She is dining on bones, sticks
and bowls over flowing with pits
of native fruits long rotted.
Her servants keep her mansions
tidy and ready for those dead coming,
those needing a place to be.
She is alive, of the sun, and dead, of
the moon, of the sky and earth,
but neither place, only here.
In the mirror, she kisses herself,
and does not recoil from the grey
and dead half, the half lost to stars.
Cold wine is sweetest, and counted
on the warm fingers of a good hand,
and spinning, she dreams of paradise.