Like a Renaissance portrait of a lady

That was meant for private eyes,

I’d rather not be found.

But if I’m found

(And found some must be)

Let the sand strip and shear my skin

And the sun scorch my organs;

May my blood dry up like the Euphrates

And my bones ground back down to dust;

May the last remnants of my mind scatter

And return once more to you, who look.

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