They don’t know you gave birth to stones
grey-grit children roughed by salt-water,
frozen with silver-eyed fire,
all dead before the beginning
but they didn’t see you weeping;
terrified to look you in the eyes.
They don’t know that before you were a monster you were:
Some of them said you hated men
wanted them cold, made venomous dust
but you needed them to touch you
more tenderly than lapping waves
so they sent blind men, dying men;
swords to unravel your sighing crown.
Man made you a victim but
headless, you would burn them all.