Maiden of Sol

She resides the shrine,
She stays under his eyes,
Under his watch,
Under his golden brows,
Without his presence,
But only his trace.

She fastens her pace,
Hunting for fruits,
To offer her lord,
The jungle floors pricks her feet,
Thorns scarred her soles,
A bangle of blood round her ankles,

Reaching before he comes,
Yet often never,
For days, for weeks, for months,
And ever loyal she is,
Lifting the tray to the sun,
And waits with herself unveiled.

Have no sympathy to the maiden,
For her heart belongs to Sol,
Stolen as she claims it,
And never hoped for a return,
Let the sun shine for life,
And let hers chained onto his.

She polishes his chariot,
Feeling his distant touch,
And dreams of his deeds,
His melodic tone in her ears,
That utters admiration,
Despite her deficient beauty,

And when he comes,
He will see her pain not,
Or dim he will be,
So the deity’s enslaved her,
For his own pleasure,
And her own desires.