Rose in her hand, and moist eyes young with weeping,
She stands upon the threshold of her house,
Fragrant with scent that wakens love from sleeping,
She looks far down to where her husband plows.

Her hair disheveled in the night of passion,
Her warm limbs humid with the sacred strife,
What may she know but man and woman fashion,
Out of the clay of wrath and sorrow, Life?

She holds no joys beyond the days’s tomorrow,
She finds no worlds beyond his arms’s embrace,
She looks upon the Form behind the furrow,
Who is her Mind, her Motion, Time and Space.

Oh, somber mystery of eyes unspeaking,
And dark enigma of Life’s loves for lorn,
The sphinx beside the river smiles with seeking,
The secret answer since the world was born.

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Luis G. Dato

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