Tuesday, 21 June 2016


Set down this.

In fine conclave
Man invented woman
For his use and his pleasure;
The milk-bearing nipple,
The child-bearing hip,
The shimmering hair,
For his pleasure.
Of carrying his children
He gave her the curse.
For his use he designed her.
In his heart was a bitter stone
And no loving.
The woman, a servant disowned,
A helpmeet
Waiting at the doorjamb
Meek and beautiful.
How could he fail to love her
Who completed him so?
What amends can be made
To the half of his soul
He scorned;
At war with himself?
He must tear his clothes.
He is cast out of the land
And wanders the face of the Earth.

Best for him that he gets this right.

No comments :

Post a Comment