once pristine . magnificat . myth . 10

“My Lord, my Love, what have I done
to wear these shackles, I, Thy sun?”
A quondam friend, a present fiend!
“My Liege, Thy words are too unkind!”

Thy aid to her thus proves thy guilt,
Our sometime noble, rancid Rain
who sires in darkness his Sire’s babes.
Now, be showered with endless night.

“Dear Sire, my Love!  Thou need not right
what is not wrong!  My womb is tight
with Thy seed true; legitimate
is this soon brought forth intimate.”