A thousand lovers one after another,
Only one remains to be.
A silk cloth used and rinsed over and over
That refuses to be free,
It roamed the Mistral path to the Alexandria queen,
Over hills of water lined with the burning sun,
Seas of rubies and aquamarine,
Lapping at her feet like every single one
Whose hands didn't hold tightly enough
Onto the throne between her fingers.
She wouldn't have kept them by her side alinger;
She had her morals set tough.
As the breeze slipped from one encounter to another,
They disappeared to sand and onto paper.
Though no weight kept them down after the feather,
So she could stoke the fire over and over.
