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Mortality clung to the last of her children

Like the final days of Summer

Like the ancient oak afraid

That she would never leaf again,

Strong hands that had birthed so many

Dried and cracked like desert stone

Like the faces of the weary

Clutching to the gift she’d borne,

Her face, tear-streaked , the tracks of dead bed rivers

Cried like the silent night

Like the still-born mother’s plight

Who feared the barren curse,

Mortality clung to the last of her children

Like the death-hug of the python

The suffocating love of fear

Which choked the life from life.