Salome lies crushed under many shields.
Each of her tears, each drop of John's blood yields
rich vintage. We've learned from mad girls with whips
that passionate destructive wild despair,
heard from fanatic men words that inspire
to cast our lust and toys upon the fire.
Dressed only in dark drowning waves of hair
Whores and ascetics lure us into trust
Force us to lose ourselves. So Salome
And John find in each other in Wilde's play
An end where death is intertwined with lust
and fate so close that if you pull apart
their vines and briars, you'll rip out your heart