Before the Sphinx

To wrap the earth in cleansing rain,
to draw an hour from a needle,
to pierce and seek the golden vein,
to see a man descend from beetle...
Enigma, would you name yourself
and take your place upon the shelf?
Or would you eye the churning flood
and see the river red with blood?
For you know, invented fiction,
the catch of breath betrays a thirst,
and storm winds blow, for good or worst,
Enigma, Queen of Contradiction!
And if I borrow Pushkin's verse,
you'll take my meaning none the worse.

Enigma, do you know your mind,
or would you charm coincidence?
A breath of wind will never bind,
may never make for incidents.
You've seen the Pharaoh make his round,
and all with rosy petals crowned,
yet why remain within the city?
(I fall to curiosity.)
Why do you haunt this spot of earth,
and why return to sift the screen?
Is here a thing you've never seen?
What is this plaguey village worth?
None could learn to answer riddles
and never ever love a little.

And yet you'll never speak your name,
though apples ripen on the line.
You'd let the fair fruit rot in vain,
and all to spite the passing time.
Wash the land with storm and shower,
see the plague that spreads each hour.
Does it need skill to hold a mirror
and draw the light a little nearer?
You, with wandering attention!
It only wants a rat to spread
and pile bodies of the dead.
(Your beauty I refrain to mention.)
How ever could I answer you?
Enigma? Nameless? What to do?