O! How evil must my womb be,
In which I bore thee.
What poison ran from my breast,
On which you fed like a pest
I raised you all wrong
All evil and headstrong
Good that you shot me dead
For a son like you, this mother bred
Why another twenty-six you kill
Sending out waves of horror and chill
Of these twenty were flowers yet to bloom …
If only I had nipped the evil and saved the doom…
Twenty and more mothers cry tonight
Many more hug their babies in fright
For people all over the world, let it be understood
My son not only killed his mother, but motherhood
what is wrong with the guy? No one can answer as every American has to self study and correct! so sad! This poem has the Indian flavor of motherhood!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Something twisted in the gyre, A soccer hit loosed a wire Something shorted in his brain, A spark distorted: he was insane; And no amount of mother love, No symbols such as cooing doves, Could have stopped him on that fatal journey That put those children on a gurney.