What else is that which makes joy flow
Like a rushing stream in the vein of a mother
If not her tendering hands nurturing her fruits
And her breast giving them life?
Blessed is that womb which conceives to multiply the earth
For a fruitless womb is a useless womb
That will rest in a tomb with no flower to give it beauty
When death comes to snatch her life
Blessed is a womb that conceives
But tragic is the laughter of that womb
When her offspring stands afar to enjoy
Fresh milk from a sexy double mountainous chest
As she falls and re-fall before death
Who stands to save her from tragedy
Blessed is the life of a mother
Hers is a blessed memory of tragedy
Tragedy of her only begotten son
Jollying on the laps of delilahs
And eating food served by jezebels
Her tragedy is her paralysed arms
Which could not wave conviction to her son
Who was drowning ignorantly in ruin
That was sweet to his soul and tasty to his tongue
Thanks to death who came to her rescue
And saved her from the unbearable tragedy of her son
To live beyond, where all wombs are blessed in eternal peace
No comments:
Post a Comment