Though light of tread, their footfall stirs
the fitful dreams of living dead.

Though hushed of tone, their voices stroke
the souls of softly sleeping.

Beauty unchained, yet undefined
their faces turn involuntary heads,
their glances inspire feelings foreign,
their gaze surfaces yearnings unfed.

It only took one sure swift slice
to banish the right breast -
to free the bow, to allow its path
in unimpeded progress.

And, in their presence
Fear will not show his cowardly face -
from vivid memory long ago -
the blanching ignominy of disgrace.

And rare are men who dare
to face the timeless face,
rarer still those
who risk a kiss -
to hear their own ecstatic cries
between the power
of Amazonian thighs.