"In the road, in the dust, the snake lies,
Like a whip in the dust of the road.
In a swarm, like a cloud, come the flies,
And the ants and their kind in a swarm.
Thro' the skin, like the links of a chain,
Show the ribs—they show white thro' the skin.
O dead snake, thou remind'st me again
Of my love, my dead love, O dead snake."
Suddenly the whip stood up on end and, swaying, said to him:
"Why are you telling lies? You are a married man, you know how to read and write, yet you are telling lies. Your love has not died. You love your wife and you are afraid of her."
The poet became angry.
"That is no business of yours."
"And the verses are poor."
"They are better than you could make. You can only crack, and even that you cannot do by yourself."
"But, anyhow, why do you tell lies? Your love did not die."
"All kinds of things happen—it was necessary it should."
"Oh, your wife will whip you. Take me to her."