The Leaning Power of Pity

Don’t you dare to lean on me,

For my bones are dry.

Don’t you dare to cry a sea,

For my marrows are wry.

 

You ask one who’s trapped in sand

To run your world, while she’s drowning in hers.

“Come on, let’s make a fairyland,”

Said you who she wants to curse

 

With speech in honey and milk.

To entice with a politician’s promises,

My tongue my ancestors’ silk;

But what, then, are the purposes?

 

Please learn from the role

That priced glistening coal

With centuries of wait: a mere symbol

of true love so civil.

 

So then shouldn’t the amour

symbolized worth millenniums, if not a whole lot more?

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