Poetry is sacred, none should take it

from another but only from within,

nor should any demand its possession

for then it would serve like a grieving slave,

servile, loveless, with obedient hands

for the styling of the hair of a lady

piled on her head like a tower, braids

appear like an ornament on a cake,

vile curls frame the face of a noble

by which the soul exhibits its honor

and further yet in displaying her neck

without adornment in a plain hair bun

more so as the captive combs the lady

the red bird of her heart shakes broken wings

then flies far away toward her lover

as birds migrate in winter to their nest!

Oh God curse masters and tyrants who force

deadened bodies to walk at their command

toward places where hearts never travel!