A Widow's Complaint

Where I come from, fear rules with an iron fist
Woe to him who disturbs its sleep
For when awakened, injustice its faithful servant
hastes to do its bidding
Sorrow never far behind it
To find a gentle soul in these parts is nothing
short of a miracle
For every man's eyes flickers with cynicism's
flame
Its vehemence making no effort to hide
Where I come from midnight certainly is the
ungodly hour
For the things that happen thence are only
witnessed by owls
Light bids as adieu a while
Leaving injustice to rule a while
Woe to the unfortunate soul that wanders at that
hour
That has not a cave to hide in while light tarries
Where I come from tradition is one thing that's
secretly loathed by all
For it has put us all under perpetual vexation for
generations uncountable
Where I come from these horrors seldom befall
a man
The woman is the unfortunate one
Bless her soul if she finds herself a good man
For the man becomes her immunity
But woe to her if her husband dies before her
For the immunity which he brought to her
bosom goes with him to the grave
For she is left in the hands of tradition
Left to wander at midnight hour
To content with injustice's wrath
Where I come from, you dare not become a
widow..............