The Burying of the Virgin
THE BURYING OF THE VIRGIN
The gloom of death gone bad so near that night,
as circumstance played out a mournful tune,
and echoed through my brain, as if it might,
give credence to the shadows of full moon;
and buried I my virgin, thin and bare,
she bathed in lilac, head down to her toes;
I laid her sixteen feet, to keep her there,
and marked her with a name that no one knows.
Then lest the devil wolves, who loved her dear,
should get a sence of lilac in the night,
and smell their way from there to over here,
to raise her from her tomb, as sure they might!
I could not bear to end her chastity,
and so she died a virgin willingly!
She was an early purchase, just a child,
of seven years from gypsies passing by,
and in her eyes, the look, both free and wild,
yet of her bondage never questioned why.
All ladies saw her beauty, as she grew,
and changed from childhood to maturity,
to be more woman than they ever knew,
and virgin that she was, was due to me,
but at her end, her body was afire,
and yearning for the love I would not give,
lest I should lay to waste, in my desire,
the greatest beauty of this life I live!
So sleeps my virgin, as she'll always be,
unless my passion gets the best of me!
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
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