The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white fingers Hooked in the stones of the wall, The storm-wrack hair and screeching mouth: does it matter, Cassandra, Whether the people believe Your bitter fountain? Truly men hate the truth, they'd liefer Meet a tiger on the road. Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but religion— Vendors and political men Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised for kind Wisdom. Poor bitch be wise. No: you'll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to men And gods disgusting—you and I, Cassandra. Submitted by Holt
Added: 2 Apr 2003 | Last Read: 4 Mar 2015 1:44 PM | Viewed: 13060 times
A PoetryNotes™ eBook is available for this poem for delivery within 24 hours, and usually available within minutes during normal business hours.
ON SALE - only
For more information...