Escape Of The Slave Girl - Poem by Eric Ratcliffe
A low arrow, I search the land
for her silver feet moving leaves
as she follows through spiced fields,
runs, or turns to a bird cry.
My father brings an iron whip
to make her lie with Usnach
who will clasp her roughly
in a dark night without singing.
When she feathers her dawn hair
by the eyes of glittering wells,
I will give her holy corn,
my mother's summer gold
and a five-pointed sea-spear
to help her defy them
who steal near young mountains
like shadows of evening panthers.
Comments about Escape Of The Slave Girl by Eric Ratcliffe
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye