her face will launch a thousand ships,
They call her darling, sweetheart, baby, love,
The honeyed words drip rotten from their lips,
Her father watches from above,
or so they say.
Born from a golden egg, a little dove
that brought no peace.
He calls me precious, baby, sweetheart, dear,
And ties me to a stone.
His face is lined with age and fear.
My father holds an earthly throne.
the wind will dance for me alone.
The innocence of Greece.
they feel it as they lie awake.
The breeze bought with my life.
And savour every breath they take,
the young Prince and his stolen wife.
the workings of his silver knife
will bring my father glory.
the men come home from war,
their strong arms freed from oars and whips,
to hold their wives and bleed no more.
I’ll be the wind that speeds their ships.
she’ll be the song on all their lips.
It never was my story.