Weaving in her cloister, While the angry winds conspire; The spider takes no heed Of all their noise and mischief And their empty, sullen words. - The Canticle of Menkeret. A bead of sweat rolls down between my breasts. I catch it and taste its saltiness. It is the salt of me, the salt of my blood, the blood of the Mentrassa. To me; a woman in the bonds of captivity and the sole representative of my people in this accursed land, that blood is a precious thing. Only seldom now does my bondage cause me to despair and then, it...
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