Beacon of hope to travelers upon the sea,
for land travelers you might be loathed
for making their paths seen.
Darkness rules the mane of your hair,
inky black a carpet of beauty upon
which you rest your head.
From a distance you seem clean
shaven, while close reveals stubble
and craggy the face that’s adored.
Many have desired to touch your
face, only few have done so and
Long is the fascination regarding
your beauty, foolishly marred as
though it is a duty, to poke, blast,
or drill as if its a right; not
protesting seen as if its alright.
Who stands with you to determine
what is good what is right, should not
your land belong to all citizens, and
should we as a whole determine who
jabs this or sinks that into your face