War Is A Fevered God Who Takes

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble, My Face Fixed In Its Marble Mask.

I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth: Nothing Is Second-best After The Sweet Of Eros.

Think Of The Moment You Count Most Foul In Your Life; Conjure It, Supplicate, Pray To It; Your Face Is Bleak, You Retract, You Dare Not Remember It.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.