You may ruthlessly wound me, leaving me stripped of my pride, With promises later denied You may render me insecure, fearful of days that must be Lurking, waiting for me. But burning in me are things that never shall pass, The wild, sweet smell of strawberries in deep June grass, The jewelled flash of a humming bird, skimming the light, And restless, wintry Orion, striding the night. Take all but these from me, And where is poverty? |