![]() Our lives were twisted in his life we also were children Like the crocus, the rose, the sparrows endangered in mud. Sold, drowned in the well, traded, used, discarded when bloomless. We were animal young, to be disposed of at will, Spawned merely, lambed, farrowed, littered,įoaled, whelped and kittened, brooded, hatched out their clutch. Helpless as he was helpless, but ten times more helpless as well,įor his birth was longed-for and feasted, as our births were not. Infants when he was an infant, wailing just as he wailed, Who were not royal queens, but a motley and piebald collection,īought, traded, captured, kidnapped from serfs and strangers.Īfter the nine-month voyage we came to shore,īeached at the same time as he was, struck by the hostile air, ![]() Through the turbulent seas of our swollen and sore-footed mothers ![]() Sailed as well, in the dark frail boats of ourselves ![]() Through the dangerous ocean of his vast mother he sailedįrom the distant cave where the threads of men's lives are spun,īy the Three Fatal Sisters, intent on their gruesome handcrafts,Īnd the lives of women also are twisted into the strand.Īnd we, the twelve who were later to die by his hand In his frail dark boat, the boat of himself, ![]() Out of the cave of dreaded Night, of sleep, Nine months he sailed the wine-red seas of his mother's blood “The Chorus Line: The Birth of Telemachus, An Idyll ![]()
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