Upon a mound of wood, I’m to burn
from my village of birth, I’m spurned
My neighbor’s sweet voice rings above the noise
“She hath bewitched my stillborn boys!”
Her sullen face, with blue-rimmed eyes
knows the truth behind her brazen lies
It matters not that her husband beats her so
her voice has been cast, like a stone to throw
How he beats her, until she bleeds
dispensing her womb of the planted seed
But he can’t be blamed for his given right
they were married under God’s approving sight
Her accusation is my sentence
For none would dare to question the relevance
of her husband’s right, her state of mind
another’s blame is much easier to find