Blind bow spirit,

                           my mother,

                                               Beatrice
This poem in the likeness of a countenance

                                                (the eyes, the nose, the brow.
The wen upon the brow, the august beard.
The mouth never right—

                                       never right) saying
What can a man
Say who has not yet begun to speak—?

Damn you Beatrice, who took my voice—mother.