Take sang to the sang-land, the farthest away
Where nymphic, ebullient monomorphs play
Upon these, their harps, made of herring-bone head
And make of your cries their illuminous beds
Sang, blood of our mother, our goddess, the earth
The blood of her menses, the wine of our birth
The narrowest foot-path through which she was born
The distant foreboding that has but one form
She shifts thus, and rotates, but moves not an inch
The chastest of virgins, the lustfullest wench
The herb of pure wisdom, the cup of her god
Whose hand bites the ankle of she who once who trod
Upon these her vineyards and on these her stones
Who drank from her wine-cups and slept with her bones
Who queried her oracles ten lives ago
Who tried to eat moon-seed and died in the snow
Who buried her children before they were born
And burned these her vestments before they were worn
She drank the sang quickly and travelled alone
To here now, and there now, and cried in a tone
That woke up the dead men that spied on her house
And tore a foul gash in the seat of her mouth
And bled for nine days and then drank up the sea
And told her sons stories that never could be ---
Her daughters had cut off their ears not to hear
As if they, by hearing, would not disappear
Into the dim grayness and redness of dawn
And keep their shape ever, and ever, anon.
