Why do you kick against the goads?
You have suffered, long and bitterly.
You drank from the spring and shattered the bowl.
And you paid a very high price for it.
You have suffered.
They lie about you, when they say you only care about yourself, a careless hedonist. It isn’t true. You’ve wanted the tenderness of the morning stars and the wind on the river racing down. And you’ve paid for it in dry tears when you were alone, and in blood in the middle of the night. You are in so much pain.
And your sons and daughters are given to Molek, and your fresh blood runs over the crusted blood, mangling together. And inside you is a cry that you fasten deep down, never to come out.