My Spinning Top

Weeping, I spin in the middle of the bazaar I call you between sobs I am afraid: of the goods I am afraid: of the torn throats the golden cords the chained feet. I have become a spinning top I whirl around myself terror of the foreign bazaar terrified of the foreign beast greedy claws. I call you between sobs. I want your hand — weeping — my love, in my hand...