From the icy niche where men placed you I lower your body to the sunny, poor earth. They didn't know I too must sleep in it and dream on the same pillow. I place you in the sunny ground, with a mother's sweet care for her napping child, and the earth will be a soft cradle when it receives your hurt childlike body. I scatter bits of earth and rose dust, and in the moon's airy and blue powder what is left of you is a prisoner. I leave singing my lovely revenge. No hand will reach into the obscure depth to argue with me over your handful of bones.