My son, my man-child is dead. The life has gone from his body, the
breath from his lips. I have held him all the night close to my heart
and it does not give him warmth. They have taken him from me and
told me he has gone to the Gods. There are no Gods. There are no
Gods. I am alone.
34
He had thine eyes-- he was like to thee. Thou wilt never know thy son
and mine, my Springtime. Why could they not have left thy son for
thee to see? He was so strong and beautiful, my first-born.
35
Do not chide me. I cannot write. What do I do? I do not know. I lie
long hours and watch the tiny mites that live within the sun's bright
golden rays, and say, "Why could I not exchange my womanhood,
that hopes and loves and sorrows, for one of those small dancing
spots within the sunbeams? At least they do not feel."
At night sleep does not touch my eyelids. I lie upon the terrace. I will
not go within my chamber, where 'tis gloom and darkness. I watch the
stars, a silver, mocking throng, that twinkle at me coldly, and then I
see the moon mount slowly her pathway of the skies. The noises of
the night come to me softly, as if they knew my sorrow, and the
croaking frogs and the crickets that find lodging by the lotus pool
seem to feel with me my loneliness, so plaintive is their cry.
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