In the shackles of care,
Being enslaved by affection,
And hands trembling of fear,
All they show is the right direction.
A burning heart of rage,
A bleeding pen of sages,
Writhing toward the vipers,
Piercing through a way for her beloved.
Who'd dare tame a lioness
So much that she'd forfeit her cubs
Than having the master's flesh for feed?
A mother is a watching eye wearing flesh
Those blessed creatures,
Those treasure chests,
Who don't say what troubles them,
nor are consoled by entreaties or tears..
Pound! Pound! Thunders, pound!
Pound here, pound there and all around,
A mother's heart fears no sound!
A cub that's lost, to the rain, is soon by mother— found.
Those stunning empresses
Whose beauty wither away in waiting,
And the smell of wishing bodies burning in their own sweat,
Nestling their seeds away from all threats.
©D'MARZ
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