Yachi

Your ice cold fish knife, is no child's game, held towards my eyes, chasing glory this end, the woman you wish to shame, inside a circle of friends, a chaste siren of strife, outside of fire's blame, who cannot be a wife, heathens demand you bend, they love you at Canaan, Africa is your stipend, who can diminish your sight, you cross into fame, sometimes in wayward flight, nothing's beyond your ken, your movement ablaze, glory where you can spin, silk to bright names.