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
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