A Mourning Mother at the Death of her Twins
Faithful to the end, they say,
Anguish softens along the way.
Grander than delight is customary grief,
In parting, pain finds no relief.
Looking back on sorrow’s weight,
Pearls and gold could not equate.
It is not the dying that wounds us so,
but the Father’s count, one by one, we know.
Opposites entice, their clash persists;
So appalling, yet it exhilarates, it twists.
Sunrise, little maid, do you rise true?
They shut me in the cold—I knew.
Tomorrow lies in a parting’s haze,
awkward, yet it fit those days.
Was comfort found in the dying room?
Or was it my doom, one year consumed?
It felt like a maelstrom, sharp with a notch,
and love was distant; I couldn’t watch.
Such little, little boats adrift,
On the old road of pain, a mournful rift.
Warm at first, as we are too,
Would ease the butterflies breaking through.
WoPoLi 
Leave a comment