Her shining, golden eyes, her skin as fair
as a new foal. I bit the bruised green pear
and the juice dripped out. It seems a bit unfair
that she rules us so: I cannot pierce the glare
of her light, I'm stupefied whenever I stare
straight at her. I know the clothes she wears
to obscure her self, and she takes great care
in her occultation. The contoured veils of hair
do nothing to disclose the imperfect justice
that she imposes. I cower in her great presence
as the light dominates the day on the solstice.
Her shining, golden eyes, her graceful essence
is justified by suffering. I have practiced
a poetry that somehow proves her innocence.
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