Son of Cain

The blood of my martyred brothers is now served up to me In goblets of silver and gold— bedewed with sweat and tears.

Drink—say slaves and masters— drink your fill, and laugh or cry As others do who are as good and just as you.

Drink the cup poured out for you: take your portion—or perish In your lonely desert of pity and self-righteousness.

I stare in doubt and horror, they do not know; My heart is torn with terror, with rage and dismal fears.

The shameful choice is given me: to die from want with decency, Or bend my will at their command, to live in luxury.

Nobler souls than mine have spurned the fatal draught, Turned away from death in life— to seek a higher end.

But in my burning thirst I drained the bitter cup. And now I must bear the curse— the mark upon my brow, The ache within my breast through all time to come.