43

Now he knew what death tastes like,
And the wrench and throes of the last hour …
He was torn asunder, and gasping …

And in vision he saw the stunted balsams and the rocks,
And the leash-held girl with her firm feet …

Wild battle began to rage in him, to do it or not to do it:
And he went mad, and shut his eyes, and lifted up his sword,
And would have struck, but through this madness a wilder madness came,
And what he thought an image was a woman's body,
The hand grasping away the sword, and the warm body struggling with his.

In horror, he shrieked out, but now he struggled on.

And a voice cried, “My son! spare me!”

“Down, monster-mother!” he shouted, and opened his eyes,
And stabbed her through the breast.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.