On Master Leaving the City
She looks and walks toward the city gates With tear filled eyes to bid Him adieu She curses the day and curses the fates She does not want to appear to so blue.
She kisses Him once, with a sigh most deep And watches Him go to a place far away She dares to not rest and dares not to sleep As for His safety and return, she kneels to pray. A girl is jealous of His kalana wine that slips through His lips time after time and His goblet that His large hands enfold that brush His lips like a lover's soul
She is jealous of the leather that is His boots that kiss his feet daily, that keep them from soot and of His furs where he lays his head and back that keep Him safe and warm, even when under attack.
Oh that a girl might be His black breeches and learn all of the secrets that they could teach and to be His great tunic of bloody red fire would leave her happy, upon funeral pyre.
Aye His kajira is jealous of things such as these and to be these things that He may more be pleased. but she is only His slave, a fate she must bear that she with these objects must her Master share.
On Master Returning to the City
She rubs and blinks her eyes in disbelief As He steals back into the city like a thief With a prayer of thanks and with delight She tries not to smother Him with her might Tears of happiness roll down blushing cheeks As she slips to her knees at His feet She praises the Priest Kings for His safe return As the fire in her heart does constantly burn She beams brightly at Him, and follows His lead As home once again they do both proceed
To a dear sister This girl wishes she could share your pain But cannot, though tears fall like soft soothing rain Dear kajira you have honored your Master well In sickness and in health and at the tolling of His bell Sweet sister, He was great, as a Master should be His goodness to all the Priest Kings did see He is now with them at home, in the Sardar He is always with you near, and never is far Dear sister you can not think you are to blame And in you , His honor lives on, as the eternal flame.
Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex: We cannot fight for love, as men may do; We should be wooed and were not made to woo.
[Exit DEMETRIUS]
I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well.