The Wonderful Woman Buried There
The wonderful woman buried there
Molded me in her hands with vision’s care
Of enthusiastic pot maker’s creativity;
Ushered me in this world of cruelty
And gallant gave me her sweet breast
Of milk so my spirit was the joy’s crown;
She held me tight in her balmy bosom
So such sincere sense of security
Handed me everlasting love of purity.
The wonderful woman buried there
Gained me my identity as sturdy as a snare;
Her great feat in edification
Lent intellect to my premature years
Hence now I stay alive wholly because of her-
No human race can subsist without mother.
The wonderful woman buried there
Self-sacrificed herself on the cross’s jolt
Flaking searing tears of salt through droughts
So I may grow to be a man neigh naughty
But a man educated deeply like her-
When the tears fell on my countenance,
The tears did not taste of salt
But like the crack of dawn’s sun.
The wonderful woman buried there
In that sinister sepulcher, beneath the cross
The lady whose epitaph reads:
‘Herein rests lady, Dr Trusila
PhD Social Motherhood,
A committed mother, sociable worker,
Human liberation seeker,
The sun for her lone son….’
The wonderful woman buried there,
The brilliant woman who gave me life
That woman who is masked there is my mother.
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