mythandrists

They say
her face will launch a thousand ships,
They call her darling, sweetheart, baby, love,
The honeyed words drip rotten from their lips,
Her father watches from above,
or so they say.
Born from a golden egg, a little dove
that brought no peace.

I know
He calls me precious, baby, sweetheart, dear,
And ties me to a stone.
His face is lined with age and fear.
My father holds an earthly throne.
I know,
the wind will dance for me alone.
The innocence of Greece.

I hope
they feel it as they lie awake.
The breeze bought with my life.
And savour every breath they take,
the young Prince and his stolen wife.
I hope
the workings of his silver knife
will bring my father glory.

I hope
the men come home from war,
their strong arms freed from oars and whips,
to hold their wives and bleed no more.
I’ll be the wind that speeds their ships.
I know
she’ll be the song on all their lips.
It never was my story.