For a long time, I was nailed to the pillory,
And some women, seeing me suffering, laughed.

Then, some men took mud in their hands
With which to spatter my temple and cheeks.

The sobs welled up in me, swelling like waves,
But my pride made me choke back the tears.

No one said, ‘She is perhaps less evil than
We suspect, she is perhaps a poor soul.’

The square was public and everyone had come,
And the women laughed in their naive way.

They tossed fruits back and forth to the tune of songs,
And the wind brought to me the sound of their words.

I felt the violent anger steal over me.
Silently, I learned to hate them.

Their insults cut deep, like the thorns of a nettle . . .
When they finally cut me loose, I left.

I went away at the mercy of the wind, and since then
My face is like the face of one dead.