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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.

Background by Jelane

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