Birth Pains (To The Mothers Of The World)

Oh happy days, we chide the voluptuous
memories began by youthful inclinations
the gleeful hours not wasted beyond,
easy way nor hard-knocked plays.
The temblor matters not, terribly
shaken by promiscuous advances:
the lust within not abandoned
by whims burst into ventured array!
Ah! It sets out free the weight bounded
on and on, closer than it were old.
On days of labor, she cried the unwilling
song began by moans and censures-
but, it was too late looking back
behind the closed curtains of woes.
The pains never cease at will nor ordered
by the command of nature or so-
thus, the expected cried hard
and embroiled ceasing silence by cant.
Oh, why this beauty of procreation
hound every way of living days beyond!

On days of growth and trimming by
the whims began to show alluring-
the painful days forgotten and faded
another plant cropped in tow...
When will this trade of angels come not
this material world turning and glow?
Even those at odds giving their share
and every thing are tremored disarray!
No wonder, the plentiful harvest drained
no share given nor share to behold.
On days of compunction, we chant by
the hyperbole of songs and praises-
and hysterious hygiene of woes
stalked the hustles and panting prays...
Thence, the culprit of it all shied away
hostily humming in cheerful quest
and tearing down the torrid walls
with a pinch of dusts blown instead!
No reasons of thoughts can allure
the nature's gallows, a galant stand fall.

by Gil Gregorio

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