Cassandra
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 goods disgusting- you and I,
Cassandra
