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It was hidden from my mother,
Who made the Earth
Shake its head in sorrow
And build its fires
And lay down its seed into an infertile field.
And you were a god,
And could not be satisfied with my tender kisses
And words of love.
You saw that they were
And you stole my childhood.
And you lay down your seed
Into an infertile field.
No hand was turned against you,
But still my mother cried.
She could do nothing.
My heart was not turned against you,
But still I cried.
You could do nothing.
For love of the children
Freezing on a desolate planet
You promised to let me go.
I saw this and was moved.
In the eleven days you wrested from my mother,
You wasted, and were silent.
The marble of your flesh grew ash.
I saw this and was gentled.
On the day that the sunlight
Warmed my skin
I saw this and understood your passion.
My mother rejoiced.
Did you think I did not know what you offered
When I took the seeds from your hand?
I wonder what you mean to me,
With your ashy hair and your long thin fingers
Your pale-pale skin and frightening dead eyes.
Why can't I seperate you from your metaphor,
And place you on the bonfire with the other obscenities?