Among the reeds and waters there, betwixt
the flooded fields and fertile shores that line
the sacred river was she born: Sangmir,
most beautiful of artisans. She worked
clay from the river bank as though born with
a potter's wheel turning beside her bed.

And in the towers fair and high, where birds
o'ertop the ramparts soar, and sounds from down
below echo from hot and hazy roofs
emerged another maiden to the world:
O Orðan, with her smiling face and cheer
that made her welcome wherever she went.

Sangmir, when she was grown, her art she took
into the streets, to sell it for the coin
she required to pay her groc'ry part.
She had in stock all pots and plates covered
with pictures she had plucked from out the minds
of passing traders who had stopped to sup
upon the docks beside her house. These things
she sold, delicately picked out in hues
of finest gold (and copper too, when she
could not the high metal obtain in bulk).

It was a lively summer's night when down
the hill came Orðan, hair adorned by stones
of precious composition skillfully
emplaced about her raven locks. She saw
the potter standing there amidst busy
market stalls and she said to her: "Have you
a bowl fit for persea fruit, which I
could purchase from your shop for modest price?"

"Though I have ne'er been one to eat that fruit,"*
Sangmir replied. "I have just such a bowl.
Is it to be for you, or passed in gift?"

*Persea is a wide genus, but in this instance refers to a domesticated relative of the avocado, that produces small, green, egg-shaped fruits. By saying that she doesn't eat them, Sangmir is implying that she's a lesbian.

And hearing her reply she laughed, and said
in cheerful tones, "It is a gift. For me,
I eat of every fruit in our wide world.
My brother though, does such a dish require —
an ordinary need, for his table
was upset by the passage of his dog."

"Well, you will need the sturdy sort of dish,
for one who has a dog about the place!"
Sangmir set one such dish upon her table,
and turned it so it could be seen. "My work,
as you can see, is of a sturdy make,
both durable and decorated well."

"Two natures found in some demand, in pots
and women both," sly Orðan answered back.
"But at what cost can such a treasure be
obtained? I have much credit with the bank."

"And from that wealth you may a dish attain!
But women must be bought with more than wealth.
Upon the market's close, you might find me
in yonder inn, that sells some roasted lamb.
For now, the pot is yours for seven drachm."

And Orðan laughed and paid and went, coming
back only when the sun had kissed the hills.
She found Sangmir just seated at the inn,
and placed an order for some lamb and tea.
The tea they brought was hot and spiced with myrrh.
And when, relaxing, the tea they had sipped,
she turned to her and asked about her day.
"How has the market treated you? How does
it please you to sell all your things of clay?"

"It pleases me as well as any day,
to know I can afford to pay for meat,"
Sangmir answered. "Yet I think that it is
not half so much the highlight of my day,
as is the fact that you came back to talk."

"I would be quite remiss to let such sweet
a look as yours escape from me for long,"
her suitor then replied. "When we have supped,
perhaps I could entice from you an hour more,
to walk along the bank and talk of stars?"

"It would be no great chore at all, to walk
with you upon the riverside and talk.
Of stars, perhaps, or of just where you live,
that down the high-street from the scholar's den
you come to take the evening meal with me."

"It is as true as anything is true,
that I live south upon the hill. But think
me not a scholar but one of those fools
whose charge it is to deal with foreign folk.
For an ambassador I am — 'tis I
who dues and tariffs do reduce, by use
of my most cunning and lascivious tongue."

"And is it really by your tongue that you
do set the rates? Not penning missives bound
for foreign ports? I should think the risk of
few papercuts to be superior
to the chance that you might upon your hook
catch some prince from out across the ocean,
and having caught him need to build again
your contacts in the land beyond the sea."

"The trick of it, you see, is to catch them
just long enough that the ink has then dried,
and having caught them, let them go, to be
swept 'way once more upon the tide," she said.
"It takes a fickle sort of heart, and I
find that I cannot bear it for so long,
without a stalwart heart to tie myself
in place, and keep me here in the city."

"And so, though seeking hempen craft you are,
you set your sights upon a potter — why?
If, in a tight and shapely jar you wished
your quarrlesome heart be kept, I would oblige.
But I have not sailed up the river yet,
and have no native faculty with rope."

And Orðan placed a hand on hers, and said
"But keep my heart you would? Oh say it true."

"An hour long has our acquaintence been,
and unlike the fluttering thoughts of men
who sail the sea in trade, a potter's heart
takes more than a minute to heat in kiln.
But — let us walk, and see what stars will guide
our travel here upon the land," she said.

They dined and drank and stood up then
to walk the short way to the waters dark.
And no record is kept of what was said,
but when the sun returned to life, it saw
the two of them cuddled upon the bank,
wrapped up in Orðan's shawl to keep the chill
of night at bay as they greeted the dawn.

Sangmir returned to work upon her craft,
but Orðan called on her again to ask
for her to venture forth with her and see
where else she might attempt to heat her heart.

The days, they passed like barley funnl'd down
from the silo of summer where they're stored.
And often did Sangmir listen to hear
the steps of her lover upon the lane.
Exploring with great frequency, they shared
one to another their most favorite sites,
and spoke of a life to be lived as one.
They crept into each other's life like rosy-
fingered dawn, 'till hardly could one be found
without the other there. They were at peace.

In time, Sangmir moved in to the south hill,
and kept her humble clay amidst the walls
that also housed the scholars and the banks.

And Orðan to her wheel did come to say
that she had done all that she could to warm
Sangmir's fair heart of clay — and if it was
not heated through by then she knew not what
to do, save wish her well upon her way.

"Of course my heart is yours, my dear," she said.
"Pott'ry may take its time to bake, but then,
when it has cooked, one can no stronger stone
find in all the world, though one look o'er long."
And having said her piece, she bent her neck
and kissed her there amongst the unglazed pots.

"Then will you swear this thing for me," she asked.
"That our purpose shall be as one? That all
who wish to know my secrets will not hear
them from your lips, nor yours from mine? That all
we do will be together, for all time?"*

* This is a traditional marriage vow, which has since largely fallen out of favor. However, it was still well known enough that the meaning would have been apparent to most audiences who heard the story.

"I will swear if only you will too,"
she answered then. "Oh say you will and joy
will fill me up, like sunshine off the sands."

"I do so swear — and now that we are wed,
may I convey you to our marriage bed?"

"There is no force in all the world that could,
prevent me dragging you right there myself,
save just your word and poss'bly heart attack."

And when that they were wed was known about
the town, and their friends had assembled there,
they sponsored such a great and filling feast
that not a single person went unfed.

And it is now that little ears who do
not wish to hear the end, but rather think
that ended well the story of Sangmir
and Orðan, should take themselves off to bed.

For Orðan turned to her wife and said this:
"Now that you will my secrets keep, I have
one more that I may now divulge: though I
have been to many places here with you,
there is one more where I enjoy to dwell.
Come in, and down, and let me show you where
I play the greatest game that's known to man."

Sangmir was glad to follow her new wife;
there is a wisdom that is often taught:
that lovers may always prove a surprise.
And this is true, but not how it may seem.

She led her down the stair, where it was dark
and deep, to a door that she had not seen.
And drew from her breast pocket a fine key.
She turned it in the lock, and waved her in.

Sangmir was startled at the sight, of blood
poured out upon the floor, a mangled corpse
suspended just above. And as she turned
to ask her wife just why, she saw not just
the key, but silver glinting in her hand.

"My love!" Sangmir exclaimed. "How blessed we are,
to have each other found. For do you know
what I was most afraid to lack, when I
moved up the hill for you? A place to dump
the bodies when they were not fresh — water
is most convenient for that, you see."

And she rushed to her side and clasped her arms around
(and pinned the knife where it could not be used)
and kissed her deep. The fear lent her a fast
beating, fluttering heart — that she hoped took
her wife for love, and not for what it was.

"My sweet, there was no sign at all of this!"
she said. "And yet, I'm glad — I had only
intended to ensure you would not come
at some inopportune moment and see,
without sufficient context, my pursuits."
Dark Orðan smiled and asked Sangmir to tell
who she had killed, and why and where and when.

And good Sangmir — until that point a sweet
and faithful wife — told now a lie that served
her well: "My first, he was an accident.
I crave not Persea fruit, as you're aware.
But that young man, he did not care. And so,
rebuking him, I shoved him off. He fell,
and cracked his head right there upon my wheel."

Sangmir in false remembrance closed her eyes.
"Of course, at first I was at this distraught,
and took his body to the bank that none
may know what had befallen him. But in
my dreams, I could still hear the crack his skull
made then — and at my hand. It was sublime!"

"My second, then, I sought to recapture
that feeling of control. I searched for just
one chance — someone to bind and take to have
my way in some controlled spot of my own.
It was fair fortune that one night I met
a sailor lost amidst the fog that rolls
o'er bank and field each spring, making all the
world white and still. I took her back with me,
and threw her to the floor, my way to have."

"Oh say not one word more, for you are mine
and mine alone! Suffice to say, you had your way,
and then, when you were done?"

                             "— yes, I then slit
her throat, with a pott'ry shard I had forged
for just that purpose. No one would find
it strange, for a potter to have some waste
about. And when my fun had run its course,
it was simplicity itself to weigh
her down, ensuring she would not be found."

And Orðan threw her arms about her neck,
to hold her close (and possibly to free
her knife, still held so close at hand). "My moon,
my stars, we now should celebrate and find
some pretty person to collaborate
upon — I know just where to find someone
at night, when blessed darkness conceals all."

"My jewel, I think nothing could please me more,"
Sangmir replied. "Let us away and find
some quarry that does please us both. Have you
a plan to lure them here or should I fetch
a rope and bag to bind them there upon the spot?"

"I have a plan," her wife assured. "And mean
to follow through." She led them once again
upon the stair, ascending now, to the
courtyard, and from there to the gate op'ning
to face the city and the dusky sky.
She took them by circuitous route throughout
the city dark and still, until close to
a party they did pass.

                       Sangmir broke then,
at quite a run, toward the crowd and said:
"She is a murderer, my wife! Beware!"
And as she wheeled upon the square she felt

The cold stab of the knife betwixt her ribs.

"But why?" she whispered, falling to the floor.

"Better to seal my fate than have a wife
unfaithful to the point of breaking vows,"
mad Orðan spat. "You said my confidence
was yours to keep, but I must now doubt that."

"'Tis true my marriage vow I broke," Sangmir
replied from her place sprawl'd upon the ground.
"But I had no choice that would see them whole —
for seeing what you wrought under the ground,
I knew our purpose could not be the same.
At least, though I am honorless, I have
a stop put to your mad pursuits. I die
the last of all your victims now: at peace."

"I'll not so easily let you out my grasp,"
she cried. "Though I am guilty seen and judged,
you will not my last victim be!" And plunged
the dagger through her own fair flesh as well.
"Together in the afterlife shall we ...
remain ... forevermore."

And so ends the sad tale of Sangmir and Orðan — or at least this, most common version of it. As is frequently the case with historical poetry, there are multiple versions preserved, with unclear lineage. In at least one version, Sangmir's gambit works, and she leaves with no worse wound than a broken heart. That version ends with an evocative comparison to Kintsugi that harkens back to the metaphor of a heart of clay. In another version, Sangmir kills herself after delivering her warning, being unable to live with the dishonor and Orðan's betrayal.

The story expresses themes of honor and a refusal to accept things for what they are that are common in Marnesi poetry. However it also acts as a subversion of the common love-story trope of two people who are extraordinarily well matched finding each other on opposite sides of a conflict — here, the fact that Sangmir pretends to such a preternatural matching is a driver of the conflict, instead of a casualty of it.

Ultimately, the tale of Sangmir and Orðan is both cautionary and inspirational, encouraging us to consider what we would have to learn, to extricate ourselves from a relationship that has become unhealthy.