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You are not the august Mother

Nor even one of her comely daughters,

But you gave shelter to men,

Hid birds and little beasts within your hands

And twined flowers in your hair.

Sister you have been sick of a long fever,

You have been torn with throes

Fiercer than childbirth and yet barren;

You are plague-marked;

There are no flowers in your hair.

I have seen your anguish, O Sister,

I have seen your wounds.

But now there is come upon you peace,

A peace unbroken, profound,

Such as came upon the mother of King Eteocles

When both her sons were dead.

For in your agony, Sister,

When men bruised and ravished you,

You remembered the wide kindness of our mother

And gave shelter to each of them that rent you,

Shielded them from death with your delicate body,

And received their clotted corpses into your once pure breast.

And now since you have endured,

Since for all your wrong and bitter pain