Stringed like a puppet,
We dance to the tune of our ancestors,
In an education that is passed on
From one generation to another.
We learn that crossing our legs
And wearing a chastity belt is a trademark
Of a woman, who believes in love,
To the extent of keeping her hull ready
To be broken by first water.
And that strain, which deprives, and yet
Sustains, lurking under lips,
Inside buxom breasts, or even between
Hip bones, is beautified, by the notion
That there is someone out there,
In this boundless wilderness,
Searching for you, your heart and then your flesh,
To become instruments of music,
Jukeboxes, gramophones, even CD players
Transcending altitudes imposed by octaves.
And when patience overrides lust
There is a beautiful unopened bud,
Which, only when spoken in nuptials, affirmed by gold,
And shared in consummation,
Opens her world, petal by petal, to be a selfless offering,
To the most selfish thing about man;
His singular need to culminate,
In corporeal democracy.