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The Slave

A knife drawn from
A scabbard of gold
Drawn across her wrists
Way back to days of old

Into the chalice her blood
Let drip
Her wounds bound each
With a single gauze strip

Her masters for whom she
Blades herself
Vampires are they
And still stands time itself

From the chalice they drink
Her wounds they heal
And for the next night
They choose another for their meal.

1999 Charity Gamble