Sacred Ring

The old, sacred ring,
which my great grandmother had possession over, now it’s mine,
the gold so thin like a cotton thread,
it could make me sing,
but now it’s mine,

from generation to generation,
it can never die,
from person to person,
the magic always lies,
the crystal,
in the perfect shape like a bullet of a pistol,
aims at my skin like a mark on my soul,

the fragile ring carefully rubs on my skin,
as the colour goes through my eyes so beautiful it makes me spin,
the soft touch so carefully I must hold,
as smooth as a baby’s head that is bald,
the touch of a stranger is like a sin,
the gold so lovely it brings me joy within,
the ring engraved with symbols,
and it calls “let me live.”