Her skin glints
like unmined gold ore.
Her leafy eyebrows have not been tamed
nor has she bathed
in some luxurious milk.
Her eyes wander, dispassionately.
She wears about her waist
the dried skin of a polar bear,
she carries in her hands
sharp weapons of flint.
Her feast is laid out on olive branches:
roasted meat, roots, fruit.
She rises and walks away
to break down branches of trees
where no bird has built its nest:
the only woman in the world,
the first woman, bearing
no scar of an umbilical cord.
Innumerable men turned to stone,
wait, aeon upon aeon,
to be released from their curse
by the touch of her feet.