by Nick Gisburne
Her tongue too tied to twist to any speech
She wonders if the day will see her dead
Her dreams are old and over, out of reach
In wisps of gold, her hair is quick to shed
Unsullied skin, enchanting, priceless, pure
Reveals a wretched hide of swarthy scales
Her grace, her charm, that essence of allure
Is lowered to the rank of slugs and snails
Despised, the serpent slithers through the slime
Oblivious of those who scold and sneer
They know the shameful story of her crime
And none will ease her pain, or interfere
Condemned, expelled from Eden, evermore
For sins that even God could not ignore
