To The Sinner

Sinner, thy mother gave thee not the milk That makes the cheek a rose, the man a castle! Each nursing was a sin; each drop, a sickness! Within thee, ancient lives revive thrice-wretched.

Vices of ancestors unknown and instincts Of beastly fathers, ever travelling, Before they rose to light, thus to become Like smiles and fields of azure blue, came down To dwell in thee, a people of tormentors!

And one day, sinner, thine own mother gave To thee the wonder-working holy image To carry it to the sacred festival Of the illumined church with open gates Calling upon its throngs of worshippers.

And on thy way, the luring harlot watched And stripped thee of thy mind; and as thy hands Struggled to clasp her, down the image fell, The sacred image, in the ditch's filth!

And forthwith even there, the plague began To visit thee! And crumbling down, thou didst Begin to groan and tremble nearer death Than the dead corpse on which the ravens feed! And Satan crouching upon thee rejoices!

And seeing it, thou strugglest painfully, Stretchest thy hands towards the ditch's filth, And darest a prayer to the saint defiled, Though still enflamed by thirst for the vile kiss!