The carrousel spins,
Cruel penance this chasing of bartered time,
How many revelations must you endure
Before you plunge off purgatory's rim?

What was YOUR sin?

Your white neck arched,
Your hoofs in tragic suspension, are born, straining,
Never touch, never mar the painted wood
Of your terrible circular suffering.

Where are your wings if you are bearer of Zeus' thunder?

She recognizes the rage
Smoldering behind your wild, staring eyes
That the merry shouts and petting hands of children
Can never claim or purify.

Is it proud Bellerophon you want in your back instead?

She, too, dream dreams, they are YOUR sin,
And her rage, silent as yours, spins and spins her days!
But see, this is not Olympus, not even Tarsus,
And she is only she, you are only you--

But which she? Which you?