A Riddle
This
sickness thirsts, but hates desire,
Chills
when it burns, but is not fire;
Sweet-tasting
to the fair and just,
But
once it catches, sour as dust;
Pretends
to free the human race,
Makes
monsters of the human face;
Corrupts
the meaning of the mother,
Turns
he and she against each other;
Twists
truth into an ancient lie,
But
has no shame to testify;
Servile,
despising those who serve,
Seeking
what it would not deserve;
Cyst
upon the human heart,
Canker
of science and of art;
Gives
love a new excuse to hate,
Envies
the power to create,
And
yet can only imitate.
What
is it?
Frederick Turner
From
Hadean Eclogues, Story Line Press,
©
1999. Reprinted
by permission of the author.
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