The sky is bloody, like a burn
festering with black and sand.
There is no sun, no moon, no
clear sky to see the stars.
Cold iron walls the garden
with spike posts and bars.
Forty by forty by forty by forty
the rose trees stand in staggered bloom
dark with thorns they grow from
pure white sand, stark and bold
the grains hum in the wind
and sing when walked on.
No stone, no gray mar the purity
of the ground. Petals fall soft
to the white, splash as drops of
blood, and soak in, nurishing the
ground, leaving no trace of
death or decay.
Death is always here, death is
where here is. This is the tomb
the garden, the grave. She is
no longer here. Gone to her
afterlife, to her next life
to the life after. Where ever
that may be, but she is no
longer here.
Here, in the center is
the fountain, and her form
carved from the stone
of ancient beliefs. The
beliefs in a god who
demanded her blood as
payment for a battle won.
Her form in this stone is perfect
beautiful, young, vibrant.
She looks up, to the heaven,
to her father, who is closer
From her heart pours the
blood of her life, the blood
of the wound, the wound of
her father's sword, the wound
of her god's desire.
She cups her hands, between
her virgin breasts, pooling her
blood, pooling her life, offering
as a gift, as food as nourshment,
as breasts should be offered
not the heart wound of a child.
The blood falls to the pool
from her stone hands, dark.
She stands in the pool's
center, in her own blood
up to her waist. Still the blood
pours, still she offers to nourish.
Still it is not enough for her god.,
Still the blood pours.
Roses, around her, drop petals
to the pure white sand, as
drops of blood they splash.
Still it is not enough for
thier god.
Every cycle of the unseen
moon, the roses give their
petals to the ground.
Still it is not enough.
The women bleed
the sand drinks and remains pure
--- Judges Chapters 10-12
