The Goddess Has No Rival

Should the leaves resent the tree

its time for roots; days of dark,

they’d wither before they bud.

Should the roots envy of leaves

strangle sap from branch and bark?

They will rot and turn to mud.

 

Faithful to the earth it grows,

attendant on heaven’s lure.

I am a windmill, she crows

To your quixotic ‘venture

 

The Goddess has no rival.

Her vine climbs as a spiral.

Why then do mortal women

Fear the dizzy hairpin turn?

 

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