To chop, or not to chop: that is the question

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The lack of your savory presence at my table
Or to take arms against a sea of hunger
And by opposing end a life
Whilst I stand here like pagan god
Naked blade raised to unknowing neck
To rob, to steal thy very breath
In destructive movement of silver to flesh
To what end? Ay, there's the rub;
Thou art a beast lived by my hand
Lived for my purpose and somewhat my demand
But what of you oh timid foul?
Would I were a god could I say you be gone
To count the clock that tells your time
To ring the hour that will be mortal?
Thou dids't nothing in life
To be sinned in death
But what of I? Ay me, I am not a god but a mere mortal
Whose own hours are counted yet by a higher handM
And could I live to know I have done
What not is my task, then to have sinned in life
To have ta'en a life not mine to take?
Methinks not, mere mortal am I
For I would bear the tortures of famine
Rather than the tortures of the higher hand
So run, fair fowl, ne'er to show thy face again
For whilst I waste you shall grow fat
Upon the grains of the earth
Sirrah! I shall waste, so be gone cursèd bird!
I shall not have thee upon my conscience
But only the agony of an empty table...

©1998 Amy Julia Vallis

Please send comments on this work to Amy Julia Vallis


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