Upon New Ithaca's mulberry coast
Penelope walks slow upon the shore.
Her fingers calling to Ulysses ghost
Oblivious to suitors at her door.
Long seven years have come and gone alone
He's not come back, the story's come undone.
The ill winds born of Neptune's wrath have blown
'till Scylla's and Charybdis' powers have won.
Death stands beside her pointing o'er the sea.
Her heart is twisted, ripped in passion's grip.
She stares where destiny points tragically,
Feet firm on shore, heart on a sinking ship.
So, who is it that longs for love from me?
This woman she despairs so not to be.
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