Sonnet On Marriage Vi Poem by Timothy Faboade

Then, their frail hope weary grows,
Unto the Founder they pour their griefs
Every moon they have failure shows
Perhaps the union will be in brief.

The womb becomes a dead tree
Dead to all the watering and weeding
When will the union become three?
The third will end the womb's weeping.

Millions of fertility test every week,
They count moons till they can no more,
Then like a poor chair it creaks
And they sign to gun the law.

All and the related ones expect the fruit
That the Holy Union widely suits.