Magadalene You seem to me a god hiding his own golden image. I can not touch you; I can not pay my dues in return for your priceless gifts. Therefore, my love is incomplete. ========= Her garments are dirty her feet bleed from thorns her desires to into dust Yet, daily, this woman nourishes her despair in lonely silence feeds herself with nightly tears covers sorrow with patient smiles. She is a widow from her birth. ©S.P.