And what is love, O women of my day?

Love is a farthing piece, a bloody bribe

Pressed in the palm of God—and thrown away.

And what is hate, O fierce and unforgiving?

And what shall hate achieve, when all is said?

A silly joke that cannot reach the living,

A spitting in the faces of the dead.

And what is knowledge, O young men who tasted

The reddest fruit on that forbidden tree?

Knowledge is but a painful effort wasted,

A bitter drowning in a bitter sea.

And what is prayer, O waiters for the answer?

And what is prayer, O seekers of the cause?

Prayer is the weary soul of Herod’s dancer,

Dancing before blind kings without applause.

The fifth stone is a magic stone, my David,

Made up of fear and failure, lies and loss.

Its heart is lead, and on its face is gravèd

A crookèd cross, my son, a crookèd cross.

It has no dignity to lend it value;

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