Mother Poem by anthony, tony chabaputa

Mother



At the starting lineof my condition of living,
That lumbering cross,
Under which only one she-self suffered
The endurance of calling forth what men call and see
To be the opening and closing
Of the first and last subdivision of the psychic temporary time,
And the course of time tied into the mind of what the whole of mankind calls daytime and nighttime.
If only some people had fortune of sharing the same mother with the strongest ruler ever lived,
In this compounded hereness under the sun,
Would this world be not bound to disbelieve the horrible tautology about the Nazarene,
Who was taught how to talk and walk by the she-self to whom I am the son.
sons of men or Just the living human inhabitants of the earth,
let us not hold God in contempt,
Especially by not keeping our religion and reverence for the almighty she-self.
If by the holy ghost,
This woman is to be called mother,
What then to me, is she to hold still for?
What about you?
No! i mean that white boy,
Whose mother is inconsolable over his death in spite of him having resurrected.
As much as Mary knows her son, my mother knows me better.
They say this boy up rose three 24-hour intervals ahead of his permanent end of all life functions,
Nobody else knew and still knows but his mother that,
Her son was no smart boy in death.
The same way my mother knows that,
certain things claimed by her son when he was a boy,
Do not exist and can not make sense to the mother of my blood.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success