Born with the right of masters,
Ashes of the past blown from the urn,
Born with perfect symmetry,
Bow before the Gods of flesh.
This power tugs your fate,
Bestowed with perfect grace,
Spotless, beautiful face,
Burning the ugliest of our race.
Your clear and perfect eyes cannot see the future,
Beauty bestow not intellect nor till the pasture,
Time and sands that fall, take away,
You cannot still deaths call, decay today.
Locked within, not a blemish upon this skin
Delicate hands, future day withered and thin,
The softest, bluest eyes to disguise,
Silver tongue twists to snap out your lies.
Bitter, curdling with scorn
Beauty yet to lose its thorn,
Soothe hatred with your enemies demise,
Only for perfection, your eyes cry.