There was a woman with two husbands,
One she loved over the other.
She sought him out, but couldn't find,
For they were pictures of another.
Her sorrow was immense and grand,
For her heart yearned for that true lover.
Her heart harbored stems and roots of evil,
And so she watered them with tears.
One grew, and she plotted a kill,
Drawing closer, ever near.
Behind her silk dress hid an anvil,
Too blunt - she raged in darkened fears.
She watered more, and more it grew,
Consuming her very being.
A twisted vine, with thorns anew,
Obscuring all that she was seeing.
The jealous flames within her stewed,
Overtaking reason - past all seeing.
The vines entangled, grew so thick,
Suffocating all in their path.
Her husbands lost, her heart so sick,
Consumed by envy's vengeful wrath.
The woman wept, her spirit broke -
Drowned in the sorrows she had wrought.
But still she tended to her garden,
Watering the vines with bitter tears.
Her heart encased in hideous burden,
Consumed by jealousy's dark fears.
No peace she'd find, no love to harden -
Trapped by the vines of her own years.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem