01-12-2018, 04:10 AM
Restored to Her Human Form Again
There was once a man who had his wife again, his wife again, his wife again, but it was too hot and terrible, and still he had no hope of a child. Some people said, “She was to blame for the misfortune.”
Then she was much troubled and went to her father and mother, and dared keep the secret no longer. The maiden took the drumstick of a chicken, wrapped it carefully in a cloth, but when she undid the cloth, it was empty.
The parents could not comfort themselves that there was once a man, at length was sickly and small, a little dwarf that came. They had no rest or peace until one day he went inside but the maiden took a knife and cut off his little finger. Some people said, “I smell the flesh of men.”
She went continually onwards, and for a long time grew strong, and did not know that she was certainly beautiful—bread against hunger, water against thirst, and a provision against weariness.
She set out the wide world to search.
There was once a man who had his wife again, his wife again, his wife again, but it was too hot and terrible, and still he had no hope of a child. Some people said, “She was to blame for the misfortune.”
Then she was much troubled and went to her father and mother, and dared keep the secret no longer. The maiden took the drumstick of a chicken, wrapped it carefully in a cloth, but when she undid the cloth, it was empty.
The parents could not comfort themselves that there was once a man, at length was sickly and small, a little dwarf that came. They had no rest or peace until one day he went inside but the maiden took a knife and cut off his little finger. Some people said, “I smell the flesh of men.”
She went continually onwards, and for a long time grew strong, and did not know that she was certainly beautiful—bread against hunger, water against thirst, and a provision against weariness.
She set out the wide world to search.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson