Even These Rocks Cry Out

I erred; I admit it. My pride was great. I grew sleek on maternity; my boasting resounded in the halls of my mouth. And so, perhaps, I deserved instruction. Brought down, humbled. Reminded of my simply human place. Silenced, perhaps — struck dumb, or mad, or blind; all this I could have borne, simply, as I am simple, as I hope to be simple. The sin was mine, and the punishment, too.

But no. Stronger poison had the gods for me, not drip-fed gently in my veins, no. Not for me the sanctification of penance. No. No blind wandering, sweetly steered by my daughter’s hands. No decade of hard labor, fed on nettles, no slavery, no human bondage to an idle man. No. Oh, my long-limbed boys! Oh, my brainy girls! How bright you were on the hills that day, how bright your blood that streamed o’er the rocks! How sweet your voices as you lay dying! How cold the gods that struck you down to physic me!

There was no justice done. This monument I have become — these endless basalt tears — find no repentance in me. In this perpetual flow I rage. Bitter the gods, and petty; may every mother damn them so.