by Nick Gisburne
Urgent, the tapping, the knocking at night
Slave to the spell of the serpent, he calls
Helpless, exhausted, too faint for the fight
Seeking the woman, he circles the walls
Only her magic can temper the pain
Hers is the medicine; hers is the cure
Cursed by a Saracen, driven insane
Soul of a snake, and forever impure
Mother of mercy, she opens the door
Seeing his suffering, hearing his plea
Infinite agony, swollen and sore
Pleading for death, or a way to be free
Hurling her potion, she smothers the flame
Knowing that she is the source of his shame
