The righteous sage went behind God's angel,
enormous and bright on the dark, high hill,
his wife ill at ease, her worry spoke gravely:
It isn't yet late - if you turn, you will
be able to see the red spires of Sodom
the square where you sang and the hall where you danced,
the abandoned windows, the house that was home, where
children you bore to the man in your heart.
She looked - and with death her eyes were frozen,
translucent whiteness where once she stood;
a statue of salt was the path she had chosen,
one with the ground her once quick foot.
Who shall bemoan the fate of this lady?
What, but a faded fable, her trance?
My heart alone shall preserve her bravery,
her, who was slain for a one last glance.
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