And the just man trailed God's shining agent, <br />over a black mountain, in his giant track, <br />while a restless voice kept harrying his woman: <br />"It's not too late, you can still look back <br /> <br />at the red towers of your native Sodom, <br />the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed, <br />at the empty windows set in the tall house <br />where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed." <br />A single glance: a sudden dart of pain <br />stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . . <br />Her body flaked into transparent salt, <br />and her swift legs rooted to the ground. <br /> <br />Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem <br />too insignificant for our concern? <br />Yet in my heart I never will deny her, <br />who suffered death because she chose to turn.<br /><br />Anna Akhmatova<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lot-s-wife-3/
