Thyamis, a gallant of Memphis,

Where melons were served

Iced with snow from the Mountains of the Moon;

Thyamis, a philanderer in Alexandris

Rich in parchments and terebinth,

Lies here in the museum.

His lips are brown as peach leather,

Through which his teeth are sticking,

White as squash seeds.

Knowing that he must die and leave her

He slew the lovely Chariclea

Who sailed with him on the Nile

Under the moon of Egypt.

This is the body of Chariclea

Undesiring the arms of Thyamis.

This is the remnant of Chariclea,

Wrapped in a gunny sack,

Rotted with gums and balsams.

As the sands of the desert are stirred

By the wind when the sun sets,

The open door of the museum

Lets in the wind to shake

Of desire long dead;

Of a murder done in the days of Pharaoh;

Of Thyamis dying who took to death

The lovely Chariclea;

Of Chariclea who shrank

From the love death of Thyamis

The multitude passes, unknowing.