A Father's Woe Poem by Hell 'Farya

Three girls run wild in my backyard,
One sweet and loving beyond compare,
Her sister kind and compassionate,
The youngest, fierce as wildfire.
They call me father. Happy. Proud.

But why does your jealousy torment me so?
For all I had, you took, sire.
Your sons: burnt and mean-eyed,
Grotesque, toothless, and imbeciles.
You, my friend, bore monsters, not sons.

And like birds that suck the living fruit,
Your demons came. To my angels
They turned their soothing gaze, and they yielded.
One by one, they took them for wives,
My daughters. Your monsters.

Yet you cried until your throat was raw
Of the injustices the gods have shown you,
Partiality and inequality, you call it.
But if your sons were mine and standing here,
I would dance naked in the open sun.