Poetry
On Motherhood
How many minutes can fit
on the lens of a mother’s eye?
Can she count the hours
in her child’s laughter?
Does she conceal her sorrow
behind a congenial smile?
Or does she wear her anguish like a coat,
blanketing herself in melancholy fortitude?
When she stands, petrified at the precipice
what is it that pulls her from the edge of oblivion?
As she steps into the sepulchre
does she mourn the innumerable forgotten steps?
And which occidental Philosophy
will comfort her in her growing confusion?
How many days are devoured
in the blink of an eye?
Could she hear the hours through her tears?
Did she conceal her joy
behind a congenial smile?
How many minutes can fit
on the lens of a mother’s eye?
Can she count the hours
in her child’s laughter?
Does she conceal her sorrow
behind a congenial smile?
Or does she wear her anguish like a coat,
blanketing herself in melancholy fortitude?
When she stands, petrified at the precipice
what is it that pulls her from the edge of oblivion?
As she steps into the sepulchre
does she mourn the innumerable forgotten steps?
And which occidental Philosophy
will comfort her in her growing confusion?
How many days are devoured
in the blink of an eye?
Could she hear the hours through her tears?
Did she conceal her joy
behind a congenial smile?