Four Walls and a Black Veil

What shall I do, Sire, with this black veil? Why do you bestow on me this great favour? I am not in mourning that I should wear it To show the world my grief. Nor am I sick That I should hide my shame In its dark folds. Stamp my forehead with this Dismal seal? If I am not too impudent, Sire If you assure my life, may I tell you, Most humbly: There lies, in your perfumed chamber, A corpse that stinks. It begs for pity. Cover that shroudless corpse. Not me. Its stench is everywhere. It cries for seclusion. Listen to the heart-rending screams Of those still naked beneath the veil. You must know them well, these maids: The hostage women of vanquished peoples, Halal for a night, exiled at dawn; The slave girls who carried your blessed seed And brought forth children of half status only, yet Was it not honour enough for them? The wives who wait their precious turns To pay homage to the conjugal couch; The hapless, cowering girl-child Whose blood will stain your gray beard red. Life has no more tears to shed; it shed them all In that fragrant chamber where, for ages now, This sacrificial drama has played And replayed. Please, Sire, bring it down. The curtain. Now. You need it to cover the corpse. I am not on this earth merely as a signet Of your great lust. These four walls and this black veil— Let them bless the rotting remains. I have spread my sails In the open wind, on the wide seas, And by my side a man stands, A companion who won my trust. Translated by Patricia L. Sharpe