Mother of many
Yes, our tears stem
From your success
& your smiles
Are inspired
By our sickness,
But your nest
Must not be nourished
By the warm blood
Of my womb
& your breasts
Should not be fattened
By the flesh of sinless infants.
Even though you reproduce
Like the clouds
Of a storm
& your children
Are as countless as the seeds
Of sorrow
Whilst our little thin as the reeds
Of the brook,
You should not seek
A home
In the shells of our souls
And let your pest-offspring
Find sanity & rest
In the mad bustle of our blood.
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