/ He opens his eyes, falls in love at first with the girl in the doorway /
/ What beautiful lines and how full of life /
/ After thousands of years, what a face to wake up to /
/ He holds back a sigh, as she touches his arm /
/ She dusts off the bed, where ’til now he’s been sleeping /
/ And under miles of stone, the dried fig of his heart /
/ Under scarab and bone starts back to it’s beating /
/ She carries him home in a beautiful boat /
/ He watches the sea from a porthole in stowage /
/ He can hear all she says as she sits by his bed /
/ And one day his lips answer her in her own language /
/ The days quickly pass he loves making her laugh /
/ The first time he moves it’s her hair that he touches /
/ She asks, “Are you cursed?” He says, “I think that I’m cured” /
/ Then he talks of the Nile and the girls in bulrushes /
/ In New York he is laid in a glass covered case /
/ He pretends he is dead, people crowd round to see him /
/ But each night she comes round and the two wander down /
/ The hall of the tomb that she calls a museum /
/ Often he stops to rest, but then less and less /
/ Then it’s her that looks tired, staying up asking questions /
/ He learns how to read from the papers that she /
/ Is writing about him and he makes corrections /
/ It’s his face on her book more and more come to look /
/ Families from Iowa, upper west siders /
/ Then one day it’s too much he decides to get up /
/ And as chaos ensues he walks outside to find her /
/ She’s using a cane and her face looks too pale /
/ But she’s happy to see him as they walk he supports her /
/ She asks, “Are you cursed?” but his answer’s obscured /
/ In a sandstorm of flashbulbs and rowdy reporters /
/ Such reanimation the two tour the nation /
/ He gets out of limos he meets other women /
/ He speaks of her fondly their nights in the museum /
/ But she’s just one more rag, now he’s dragging behind him /
/ She stops going out she just lies there in bed /
/ In hotels in whatever towns they are speaking /
/ Then her face starts to set and her hands start to fold /
/ And one day the dried fig of her heart stops it’s beating /
/ Long ago in the ship she asked, “Why pyramids?” /
/ He said, “Think of them as an immense invitation” /
/ She asked, “Are you cursed?” He said, “I think that I’m cured” /
/ Then he kissed her and hoped that she’d forget that question /
