Oh servant of Hathor,

A calling you say,

To spread pleasure and joy,

Admirable indeed,

And much needed,

In this place,

This desert,

Poor of passion,

And dulled by work.

I praise it,

Where you stand,

Amongst it all,

Like a hell flower,

Blooming,

No matter where you're planted.

I praise it,

It's potential,

If ever kissed,

Blessed by the divine,

Would be a glory to all,

A beacon of greatness.

Where will it land,

Where will it go,

This calling?

Will it find shelter?

A greenhouse for its beauty?

Or will it sustain itself,

In the depths of the valley,

On ash and sand,

Living on moisture.

My hope,

Is that its picked up,

Wherever it may be.

My hope,

Is that it allows itself,

Its own calling,

To be pleased and joyful.