Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
-Wilfred Owen
Man
gets lost in the forest
Woman
glides over a lake
Man
discovers a lake and woman gliding over it
Neither
can swim
They
find solace in their inabilities
Man
and woman roll on the shore
It
gets cold in the sand
Man goes
for firewood
The
tide rises
Man returns
triumphant
Woman
is elsewhere
The
lake dries up
And man drifts to sleep
Wondering how it was even possible
For woman to glide
over water in the first place
