THE SILENT CRADLE

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The turmoil of one man torn between love, tradition and duty.

My roof is in flames
Too wild to make tame
By the bulk of a masculine frame
Of once acclaimed fame

Your only crime was nature's mischief
With her ways so stiff
Your virtue was steep as a cliff
But your cradle has sang no songs

Silent compounds
Without small strong fingers
To pick the meat clean
Off remnant bones

So your fate is sealed
By the hands of your oppressors
Advocates for your eviction
Your comrades in womanhood

Communing voices from the hearth
Making tent at the foot of these walls
Once deaf to the might of forgotten warriors
Now trembling under the weight
Of shrill imploring voices

Voices for the stocking of these lands
With fertile plains
And supple bosoms
To fill this roof
With the noise of it's harvest.

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