Women cradled newborn babes veiled with a mothers blood,

their hands steady and assured.

 

Their love knew no jealous god, no book or holy ground,

their voices spoken not written.

 

Beaten and defiled by men borne by woman's pain,

men corrupted by instruction and fear.

 

Their bodies vessel's of nurture and hope, broken by hate,

bloodied fists against bare flesh.

 

They are the Mother of the world, the womb of all that is.

are they the new christ to suffer the father?

 

Men, so weak they are afraid of their own humanity yet they exalt terror,

frightened, ignorant, selfish pigs of men. 

 

Who weeps for these women of mass matricide?

Who shows mercy, if not their Sons?