SM ( / )

For Her

A sickle hangs above
Her tiny head that rests
On the soft blue pillow
Waiting to chop it off
Like it were a weed.

They call her a nuisance
No one knows why, in what sense?
“We don’t need her”, they say
“She has to go, and she will today.”
They bring in the poisoned milk
To put her to sleep for ever
Without a lullaby.

Bending to kiss the rosy cheek
As that little head rests
On the soft blue pillow
“Leave her alone” – sobs the mother
“She is mine. I live for her”.

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Comments (1)

Mother only knows the value of her child. Of all the Gor's creations, it is the mohe that is second to none.