A Poem for a Harlot

In the evening,
Clad in your diaphanous skin,
You walk the streets
which have no name,
Not knowing where they will take you.

Tlok, tlok, tlok,
These are
The sound of your feathered footsteps.

With the sound of your heartbeat,
You time
The passage of epochs and eras.
And your walk becomes
The unalterable rhythm of living.

In your gait,
All the elements of life are woven
Into a seamless piece of fabric: your skin of gold.
Epithets of shame, when sewn onto
Your skin of ether, become stars
And your skin is the limitless sky.
And you, dear lady!
You become a constellation.