She crawls slowly from the hills and throws herself into the ocean,
Love moves her relentlessly in slow motion.
And she rises again the next day.

The world has entered into the age of her,
And she smells like Douglas fir,
But I wear her ornaments proudly.

She grows white roses for her purity,
the thorns for her lust, 
And the wild ones because she must.

She is more precious than rubies,
And her steps take hold on hell.
If this poem was about her, 
she'd be able to tell.