I have an Old World beauty
Rubensesque in nature
not quite the image of Danu,
Earth Mother,
lithe as a snake,
a twisted pretzel.
I have an Old Soul,
worn and weathered,
my supple skin
belying the wisdom in my glance,
with the nose of a Spanish monarch,
the eyes of a Syrian dancer,
the life passion of a zealot,
and the caution of Eastern Europe
trickling through my limbs.
Never give me cause to
exhume the Celtic curse
buried at the base of my
spine.
The venom would most certainly
kill you.
