There are no words for this-
for this hamstrung rope that is my heart;
this rope that winds and winds a binding
around itself,
like the greased well-rope stinking of bog-muck,
creaking and groaning as the wooden bucket
emerges from the dark-
the laden bucket swinging and spilling water
tasting of the earth's lightless insides-
the rope stinking of pitch,
stinking of subterranean ooze,
winding and winding
as the thirsty turner of the handle
humps and pumps, leans and sweats
to bring the coolness of the unknown dark
aloft...
O! there are no words,
merely gristled groans and gratings,
squealing strains and squawks,
from the tortured and twisted, entwining fibres
of the jute.
O! that's my heart, my heart,
the tortured, twisted ply,
tough as thistle-wool-
that is my braided heart.