Sunflower at the eclipse

Like ink to a paper so does a word to the brain On the face it draws its temper and on the back lays its stain Lamentation is a hefty hamper only to those who can’t bear the pain When the whim unleashes its thunder there is no time for restrain Then set the quill for plunder and the hand to be morally slain Between the lines lurks the gender what is left is meant to be plain