The Martyrdom of Saint Agatha
A tale of pain and sacrifice
Her body, forgotten by the knife
Now rests in a field, rotting away
Buried deep under the earth
She tasted its bitter taste
Her breasts, once a symbol of femininity
Gone, cut off in a cruel act
She carried them like a bell
Their pink color a reminder
Of her once fruitful chest
But now, just a pearl of dust
Imagine, a mouth filled with desire
But Saint Agatha would not open
Her body, her legs, her very being
Shut down by the cruel hooks
They dug into her delicate skin
And pulled her towards each window
But the wooden horse, her only support
Her wrists strapped, refused to give in
Bone on bone, she held her ground
Defying the torture and pain
But then, the knife, rusty with time
Came to bring an end to her misery
And in its cruel, rusted light
Her flesh was spooled like thread
Her breasts, once held high and proud
Now just loaves of bread, lifeless and drained
Saint Agatha, in her martyrdom
Holds her head up high.
She knows that her sacrifice
Will be remembered long after she's gone.
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