Jeremiah: Chapter 4. Free-Writing.

http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1104.htm

I do not feel like writing today. The wind is too calm and the sky too blue, and the men to gentle in between my thighs. The knives have been packed into carriages. I hear the winds how like jackals, and know that the thunder will come soon, bringing a rain that will break the backs of wheat-stalks, like heartache breaks the backs of old women, who go begging in the streets, remembering the days when men painted their bodies in kisses, and jewels crowned their eyes. I know that one day I will be such a woman, as surely as tomorrow, this lover will rise from the canopied bed upon which we lie, and reach into his pocket for a moment, before drawing a dwindling gold and throwing it on what was once a white silk sheet. I am told that often, before they are about to be butchered, the calves close their eyes. But I (a lifelong vegetarian, except for sacrifice-days), have long learned to go to the slaughter with my eyes - and legs -wide open. Only the wind will hear my cries.