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~ Poetry by me ~



Nothing is wasted on me -
I give, and receive, and recycle.
Even you.
Hills and barrows, my breasts
From which volvas rise,
Breaking my skin
To talk to those still above.

Foolish though you are,
I am fond of you all;
You are me, in a way, after all.
I loathe to let my children leave -
The pull of my gravity, motherly strings.
And when you feel proud
As you travel to Mani
Remember this:
He, too, revolves around me.

Michaela Macha

License: This poem may be freely distributed, provided it remains
unchanged, including the copyright notice and this License:

This work by Michaela Macha (www.odins-gift.com) is licensed
under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives License.