Revolution

She is not of the fireside,
My lovely love;
Nor books, nor even a cradle,
She bends above.
No, she is bent with lashes,
Her flesh is torn.
From blackness into blackness
She walks forlorn.
But factories and prisons
Are far more fair
Than home or palace gardens
If she is there.

poem by Lesbia Harford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!