Читать книгу Dark Soil - Stringer Arthur - Страница 17

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Close to each light-hearted woman

Who kisses her lover

And laughs and retreats,

Reluctant yet melting,

At war with herself,

Withholding yet warm,

Enkindled yet cold,

Stands a shadow,

The sentinel ghost of a ghost

Who whispers past pulsing of blood

And panting of breast:

“All I ask of you, fool,

Is a seed in this soil,

Is a thread for the loom.

Grow pale with your rapture,

Poor quivering tool,

But leave me a link for the chain,

A child in the womb!”