The inquisitive daughter leapt, and said unto me:
“Sweet Mother, your disguise I most relish.”
She slept in the navel of man’s lonely hollow,
and blew kindness in whispers that perish.

And once unto me, a darling grandchild,
who loves and knows not to be loved.
She carved in the mud, of her markings she paid,
and revelled deep in her Father’s lost blood.

Now she tricks and she spends, with arduous care,
and leaves the poor of her town in her debt;
Her Mother, who loved her, took none from another-
she lived out her days long, and bereft.

© copyright Eve Redwater 2011


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