be a dark tunnel
where crawling things
fear the light.
Heart be a bird,
a red macaw in the highest tree.
Be the grotto in the mountainside,
home to gypsies, or fresh water
on the burning sands of deserts.
You , torment of my dreams,
be a mourner at the grave.
In your tunic of infinity,
be a marble stone and a eulogy.
art by Free People
(Photo Credit: 123rf.com)
So painful the child birth.
Then the accompanying tears of joy,
with the cry of a baby brought to earth.
The sweet innocence in the eyes,
after the tears come the smiles,
and so the mother goes the extra mile.
In sickness and in health,
she cradles her child;
Her tears a reflection of emotions deeply felt.
Growing up is tough.
Raising a child in this permissive world,
where all sorts of provisions are never enough.
So the mother, forever in prayers,
as her child go out daily into the world and mingle,
with the known and unknown from different layers.
The future outcome, whether tame or wild,
she can’t help but accept their fate,
for he or she will always be her child.
Unless you are a mother, you can only imagine what they go through while…
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