The Dying

In the deepest cresses,

of your lavish body,

there is warmth and,

motherhood.

In the soft caresses,

you bestow your body,

there is love like

none I've known.

In the dents and boulders,

that make up your body,

there is life and,

only good.

But on trembling shoulders,

there's a weighing burden,

when you reap what

man has sown.

You are dying, mother,

your skin is landscape,

that is withering,

with decay.

With war and famine,

with hate and murder,

you grow weaker

every day.

Forgive us, mother,

we cannot see how,

you are poisened

at your core.

We cannot win,

this fight will end us,

but you shall burst to life

once more.

In the cooling winds,

you will mend your breaks,

your cracks, your

crevices.

In the pooling floods,

you will drink away,

the thirst of decades

waste.

In the shaded spots,

you will stretch yourself,

and find that

you're appeased.

For the budding life,

shall bring you hope,

despite all that

you've faced.

In the deepest cresses,

of your lavish body,

there is warmth and

motherhood.

What motherly love,

you had bestowed,

if man had

understood.