The Ice Maiden Poem by Gordon R Menzies

For two and one half millennia
you slept in the cold Siberian ice
mistress of trackless, grassy wastes
warrior horsewoman wild, whose
people ride here no longer
learned Herodotus wrote of you

Beneath a modest hillock, they
found you there, locked below,
framed in wood like a portrait
your flesh intact, caught in ice
they laid you here in June, in silk
attended by your six horses
and your last loyal lover
your shield and armour intact
your bow, with which you
launched a hundred deaths
lies with you in your own
At five and twenty you
sliced off a firm left breast
to make them fly the truer

Were withered flesh made plump again
where the stag upon your shoulder dances
there, my lips would too, and lay down
a hundred kisses true, in such adoration
that they might throw up the mound
the higher, just to hold the ones
who'd follow my example