The sea and the trees and the stones ignore me
They have grown bored of my saturnine mood
From this grim routine, I'll never be free
But breaking it would be terribly rude
What kind of occupation is waiting?
When the grey horizon swallowed his ship
I secretly felt like celebrating!
Each time he kissed me, he bit my poor lip
My father sold me to him for some sheep
Our children understand neither of us
For him, I'm expected to yearn and weep?
Not once did we weighty matters discuss
Gods give lunatics excuses to kill
The thought of his return makes me feel ill
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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