My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble,

Words Were Her Plague And Words Were Her Redemption.

...if You Do Not Even Understand What Words Say, How Can You Expect To Pass Judgement On What Words Conceal?

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

When You Would Think, "what Was The Use Of It," You'll Remember Something You Can't Grasp And You'll Wonder What It Was.