The Celibate

The field is barren, comparably the statue of a virgin
The soil's articulations contort, inhospitable,
Over the turgid basin of the earth, the fruits
Of the pissing moon:

These have not heard the utterance of sprouts,
Abandoned of the plow, nay more the sickle,
Certainly the seed. Only a cold wind ravages
The few and bare aborted arms of trees.