He planted a thorn in her side

To enslave her:

She draws water from the well

Prepares morning coffee

Picks his teeth for bits of food

And women.

Clap, clap

He claps his hands

She becomes a stretch of land

And provides him with wheat, barley and oranges

Clap, clap

She rises as a cross in a field

A scare-crow

To birds, an object of laughter for linguists and looters

Then she purifies water from the pond

To wash her fingers, which bandits had cut with their swords

And spreads his shirt on her chest

To let the blood dry

Clap

She turns into a waterwheel

Irrigates the soil

Draws circles and shades

On the water

To complete the picture.

At noon

He claps again

She becomes a hornbill

Digs for worms, takes stains from cotton threads

Then turns into a fish

Swallows silt

And empties her stomach in the Northern rose-field.

Clap, clap, clap, clap

She becomes a filly

He mounts

To inspect his vast gardens

Nietzsche's whip in his hand:

Mayor of the village.

The old farmer

Knowing villagers' wisdom and customs

Trained the woman according to demon law

Then took a nap at the side of the ditch

Looked in her eyes

She became a maiden

With whom he slept

Making her pregnant of a reddish girl

He killed

She was pretty

Therefore,

He disfigured her face on photos

With black chalk,

Because her beauty

Made his friends ugly

Before sunset

His throat went dry

She became a piece of gum

He chewed

Then,

Spat out

What stretched itself in the sand

And transformed to Eve.

Attaining womanhood

She slept in the hope of resurrection.

At sunset

He removed the thorn

And she vaporized.