She is a vessle of great life. Who has made me live in the
world of sorrows.
Who has thrown me into the body of a stump?
Out of this vessle comes blood, that endures and dwels in
I dwell in the works of my hands.
Grief and woe she suffers in the body garment that transforms
How often must she put it on, how often must she put it off?
Habitation must ever again be bound with strife and not behold
the inner light.
Why does conflict live? The instrument of her pleasure is her
A world of turbulence without rest.
O youth of good deeds and beauty!
How slippery is your Demiurge?
Up through the center I rose.
Until, I found the key.
There was the knot that must be unravelled.
The veil was torn from you
with some little talk of me and thee.
© Copyright 2008 bob county (UN: muzzy43 at Writing.Com).
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