The night crickets sing,
waving their antennas in the cool breeze.
Innocent girl, fragile girl.
She leaps and dances over broken twigs and rocks,
the scratches on her face shining like the river Nile in moonlight.
Her basket is pulled closer to her chest,
as the world rolls out under her feet.
Her heart is a land of the purest of pure,
envied by Babylon
and Mecca.
She meets a desolated jet-black haired boy along the path,
a boy loved by all but by himself
she picks him up and tucks him in her basket.
Kind girl, demure girl.
Two daughters appeared further down the path –
one is weeping with her hands tucked in empty pockets,
one with a deep scar running through her chest.
Hush –
murmurs the girl
and all they went,
right into her basket
bathed with adoration, with all the love they could ask for.
Loving girl, sincere girl.
And though the person that came next confused her
a child of Aphrodite and Hermes,
a union of Mercury and Venus,
soaking wet skin from the pool of Salmacis
she still embraced her before slipping her in the basket with the rest.
Forgiving girl, accepting girl.
I love you –
she murmurs into the basket,
now full of residents of old, and residents of new
It hurts to love so much,
for every slice of cut,
pierced,
bloody tendon
and muscle to be distributed to each of the inhabitant of her little basket.
to have everyone nibble away at her
but her love will never cease,
for she has all the love in the world to give.
The night crickets have fallen silent.