Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor

There's A Black Rose Growing In Your Garden.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

No Man Will Be Present In Those Mysteries, Yet All Men Will Kneel, No Man Will Be Potent, Important, Yet All Men Will Feel What It Is To Be A Woman.

O Do Not Weep, She Says, For Ages Past I Was And I Endure