|From the book Old Songs|
|A woman’s lot is the spindle,|
as on the gravestones of old,
and storyless nights in winter;
orphaned whem young, widowed when old,
and sick of herself, in the end.
A gold thread was falling from heaven:
down, down, never touching the ground.
Why should my heart be hurting?
A magic fish was darting
right from the depths of the ocean,
holding a ring set with pearl:
up, up, never reaching the shore.
Why should the storm in my breast be howling?
If I could cry – but I’ve nothing to cry with,
Cry pity for the beautiful earth.
| ||A woman’s lot is the spindle...|