Once there was a rosy child, red as roses
And she gamboled on green hills
She gamboled in the free hills,
Dotted with honeysuckle, violet delights
She drank from cool springs and laughed, she
Laughed to be alive in the glorious morning.
And when the sun reached its peak, still
She smiled, her hands became stronger,
Dropping seeds from overflowing pockets
She planted unashamedly and smiled.
And when the cool spread indigo veils over
Her pleasant frolics, she rolled in dusky pastures
And lay with arms outspread. She dusted off
Her wounded clothing, and sang, sang to be alive
In the silver shade.
And when Night fell, she slept
She slept under the sailing stars
Under the moon, humming her eternal mantras,
On the free hills she slept, and dreamt only of waking.
But the sleep only deepened, her visage became
Restless, she could not find her way out
Of the labyrinths that staved off the free hills of
Her song.
She woke at last, like Ariadne’s lover emerging
On a birthing canal of string she shook
Away her uneasy sleep.
No longer rosy –she saw her strong hands golden brown
Burned brown by the star’s fickle light.
And her scars sang with her as she toiled
In the gleaming day, in the golden fields she
Toiled and sang.
She sang for the pain and the health
And she sang for joy, pure joy
To be awake and toiling in fields of white wheat.
And she grasped a red rose, as she sang
And the thorns made her bleed, so she smiled.
She smiled to be alive, thick with coursing red life.
And cool water coursed over her
And she was clean. And she laughed, lathered
In beauty and hardship –she laughed to be pure
Golden in the full-blown sunlight.
But the sun did not set, that golden day, and the shadows of sleep
Did not fall gently as settling ash.
The moon did not rise, a phantom from a brown grave.
The sun drained the blood from her body
And careened through bruises of clouds, mottled purple.
It was red, red as roses and it shook the heavens and it
Shook the free hills as it fell.
And the stars followed, scowling stars, thin as razors.
And they grazed her cheek as they passed.
And they burned her strong hands
Charred her golden hands as they passed.
And she ran, but she couldn’t run.
And she screamed but she couldn’t sing.
And she wept, she wept to be alive in the time of fire.
She wept for her hands, black as sin.
And she wept for her face, pale as a death delayed.
And she wept to linger in the valley of shadows
To linger and see the roses gray with age
Dripping mildew and
She wept to be alone with the chaff that scratched her mottled skin
In the whimpering wind. She wept for the free hills
Dark with shame.
*This is a poem I wrote just after I was molested. It basically describes how I felt... I might write a second part about how things turn up. =]
(because, surprise surprise I also love ladybugs =] )
