The Woman From The Underground

The woman from the underground
Is not as beautiful as she once was
The lines on her face are the scars of time:
Good and bad,
Her eyes do not sparkle any more -
Not electric or alive like the veins that run underneath,
Thin strands of grey hair are not well hidden
Beneath her straightened blue beret,
She looks out at the city that eats her,
Every day is a funeral mourned, dressed in black and blue,
She goes home to her tomb-home on Richmond Hill,
And stays awake, dwindling time, for she cannot bear to dream,
The crimson flush of red wine in the glass, calms the pulse and drops the eyes -
On her holy mountain she resides, listening to the night whisper preludes to the day,
Silver shafts of moonlight bask on her naked belly, that once glimmered like gold.