Born in the mother’s lustre,
Deep within her still waters truth;
Whole in a dark swells bliss-
The rune flows in from the wind-
For sun seeks an end to honest perpetuity.
He wiles spray of the mother’s soul away.
Her pitted being summons its scorns craft,
Gathering daughters led by the sun astray-
In brief white feathered spectres of hope.
But sight was rendered baseless without feel-
So to those distant nuances she racks.
From this furor, daughters drop timeless.
Skies re-sound the first known harbinger,
Mother’s weeping continually recycles;
To maim loam and drown Savannah.
Coating nature in its breathless mould.
Sly mother now waits for the quiet night,
Over slating reflections to ask of the moon,
To loom above pilfering land and salve kin
Before their sully lies bleak in oblivious truth.
It’s always too late.
Fruitless sources pulse daughters back to pristine waters,
Only to defile the caressing womb of life.
Thus her apathy frightens them to flee.
We are lost daughters.
We are rain.
Teardrops sung in sin.