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Collected Poems

The Woman to her Lover

page 113

The Woman to her Lover

Had he battered me, called me whore,
had he thrust me out of door,
the end might have been different.
His kindness was deadly.
You ask me why, when the torrent came,
it was I who drowned and not he.
You do not understand.
You think emperors and great usurers are powerful.
Think of the power of the leprous beggar
who throws himself on the road and will not move.

I was defeated by pity,
the wooden horse that captures the iron city.