What cave are you in, hiding, rained on?
Like a wife, starving, without care,
Water dripping from your head, bent
Over ground corn …
You raise your face into the rain
That drives over the valley—
Forgive me, your husband,
On the streets of a distant city, laughing.
With many appointments,
Though at night going also
To a bare room, a room of poverty,
To sleep among a bare pitcher and basin
In a room with no heat—
Which of us two then is the worse off?
And how did this separation come about?