The Woe In Man'Woeman'

Seven ribs made from a single bow fragile like the morning glow shaped like an hour glass bosom like a molded brass skin like the finesse lace Thought to move with grace All from a single rib Oh what a gem to behold Her tiny belly Carries a life within Out of the tiny verging hole Comes the cries of a whole A pain beyond words expressed A cry to life the young express Tears not enough to explain Memories from the mid-death plain Oh what a site to behold From her mammary comes the ceaseless flow Food to make her young to grow Sleepless when the fever stems tear like flowing stream Filled with fear for the baby's life Never drained of hope as the tot strife Moved from weary to worry Oh what a misery to behold Weak as though she's called Bold as mountain she stands Her strength lies within her tears A frail looking being A giant within The woe in man Woeman *tot* > a little child