Helot by George Friel

SHE stood at the window twisting the ring on her finger,
tugging the curtain, then twisiting her ring again....
the obvious rhyme is linger;
well, she lingered, she lingered there then:
tired as these words look tired, resentful as they,
at the slowing darkening of another Day.

The world was tired, trying to lean its weight on words,
and the words were tired too.
She saw what she had always seen,
an empty scene,
wearily answered No and yet admired too.

Words are tired things, resentful things:
that is why she never sings,
but rolls her necklace round her fingers,
life tied to a sequence as rhymes are tied.
So she lingers, knowing the rhyme is lingers,
standing at the window twisting her ring with tired
fingers.

(from A Friend of Humanity and other stories)
*Helot: a member of the lowest class in ancient Laconia, constituting a body of serfs who were bound to the land and were owned by the state.