When the blush on the rose deepens to crimson,
and the petal skin cracks with wilt,
Which spidered Arachne spun these veins,
Shriveled in spite & pity?

I took the path of needles,
let the distaff pierce and bleed
and rouse me from slumber

I suckled too many boys who wouldn’t grow up
And some wolves who left me crying

My only thought now, a tower,
The solitude, if not the right,
to a maiden’s bower…