The Son
The son stretched out his well-shaped head firmly,
Palm down
If a hand could speak, the hand
Would have mourned: Yes, oh my
Mother, my rose, the perfume of
Your sacrifice pervades my dreams.
I cannot bear the memory of your
anguish. Sit still, my queen, for
that is what you are to me.
With his mouth he said fairly sharply,
“Quiet,you. Watch your blood pressure.