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.