"Mother!"
A last gasp through her teeth and tears. The vociferous moan of the night. Blood
gushed. Her body stabbed staggered. The waves of her hair swayed with crimson
mud. "Mother!" Only heard by her man of blood. At dawn If her twenty
years of forlorn hope should call the meadows and the roseate buds shall echo:
She's gone washing off disgrace!
Neighborhood
women would gossip her story. The date palms would pass it on to the breeze. It
would be heard in the squeaking of every weather-beaten door, and the
cobbled stones would whisper: She's gone washing off disgrace!
Tomorrow
wiping his dagger before his pals the butcher bellows, "Disgrace? A mere
stain on the forehead, now washed." At the tavern turning to the barman, he
yells. "More wine and send me that lazy beauty of a nymphet you got, the
one with the mouth of myrrh." One woman would pour wine to a jubilant man
another paid washing off disgrace!
Women
of the neighborhood women of the village we knead dough with our tears that they
may be well-fed we loosen our braids that they may be pleased We peel the
skin of our hands washing their clothes that they may be spotless white. No
smile No joy No rest for the glitter of a dagger of a father of a brother is all
eyes. Tomorrow who knows what deserts may banish you washing off disgrace!