So still, she sat, o’er moorland’s soul
In penance, as though, crestfallen sage
Unbeknown, to the rites, of womanhood’s toll
A waif, sheep-maid, learnt to, come of age!

The spring, of youth, from her, fertile womb
Flowed down, her legs, dripping o’er dust
Unwary of, shame and, sin’s aplomb
And the line, so fine, between love and lust!

“Is it, cupid’s boon, or nature’s wrath”
Mused rustic lass, lost amidst, her herd
“Who baptized me, in this, bloodbath!”
“It’s the mother, caged in you” an ewe whispered!

Thence she stood, sans that, shame and fear
And held, her heart, in a, tight caress
Leaving splashed, on soil, love’s sublime souvenir
Maiden Menses Of The Shepherdess!

© 2019 Vikas Chandra