Classic Poem

Why do I sing a civilization that martyrs singers?
Think you I am a traitor to the queen of song, a spy within the realm of poetry?
No.
'Tis because its hands, gnarled with toil, have bandaged with a bloody rag the wounds of many;
Because its face, sotted and seamed, offers still some kindling for the dying soul;
Because its breath, thick with discord, is also hot with wrath over the murdered beauty of the world;
Because its shoulders, knotted and bowed down, hold yet the strength to lift the world up;
Because its breasts, shriveled and shrunk to a scar, still have milk roots that can swell with joy;
Because its smile, crucified within the heart, lies waiting for the resurrection day:—
That's why I sing of a civilization that martyrs singers.
Oh, I am no traitor to the queen of song.