This screaming dirge,
not by ring of swords -
but by nails rendered down.
Mother - do you not see me?
Your eyes ablaze; all the seeming
of Dionysus dreaming.
Yet he can spare such dreams -
bull chained against fire -
earth to quake with godly rage.
Mother my chest - my heart -
the heart you gave me;
now pomegranate in your hand.