The beauty which hands strength to my weakness
Is what I am about to pen hereon
The world of men struggles uniqueness
A kind that needs not duel is Mother
The very nature of fruitfulness is Hers
She is Mary now and yet She is Martha
She listens and there She cares at once
Only Her pleasure
is soiled by pain at conception
And the beauty She births
again tears through Her skin
Tomorrow She is there
up and caring
And nursing
And watching us foolishly say She is nothing



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