We are so tired of merely being human,
Loving or loved, the sweet imperfect woman.
Masters, you know not what your lips have missed,
On the rose mouths you keep but to be kissed.
We are Astarte, we are Lilith, we
Know the blue veils which you have named the sea
Cover the eyes of Isis; that the sky
Is the white body of Neith, arched so on high.
Ours is a secret language, when we smile,
Dreams are denied at birth, all to beguile
Your earthy substance. Ah, at what fell cost
We pay you, so our heritage is lost.