Serpent’s Sonnet

By
How tired I am, yet at your command,
I toil the works of your decree.
How can I till the lord’s land
Without laying barren a field that is me?
Servant to your venomous scheme
I labor under your bane.
Oh! Those fangs agleam
Close around my wrist like a chain.
Sinful labor for which I detest,
Make my swollen eyes become lead.
I cannot be graced with rest
So how can I dream of being freed?
Look up to the sky, slithery amputee—now you I disencumber,
And under the fecund tree—never will I slumber.





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