My Human Disguise.
Inured to wind or rain, the women rest
On a bed of air, draped in silken sheets,
Sated on honeyed wine and creamy sweets,
Their flaxen tresses framing each bared breast.
Though their eyes are closed, we can’t be sure
They’re sleeping, if they are dreamt or dreaming.
They throw dim shadows from a star beaming
Dimly distant and reluctantly pure.
It’s late winter and the snow starts to thin.
Even the mountains’ snowcap is shrinking.
We can’t know what the women are thinking.
Perhaps they hope that spring vanquishes sin.
Dear ones, where are the men? They sin as well.
Is your punishment their heaven or hell?