Mother God

This world, this cradle of homesick children
Searching for its dimly but fiercely remembered Mother,
Chills with confusion -- until it hears yet once again
That lullaby so beguilingly warm it can belong only to her.

Or perhaps that tune is but the world itself as it taunts
And preys upon its stranded children, wishful and naive,
And the sound is only its laugh as it its cunning flaunts
In stifling the mother-love they stammeringly claim to believe.

O full world, tangled with the cycles of living and dying,
So overfull that it is stunned by the needy burden clamoring on its back,
So tired with itself that it no longer feels itself being pulled, flying
Towards that brilliance that burns through the menacing black.

- But - always stretches the long and tender arm of the Mother, as it curls
Around the children while the world flies through wheels of stars too deep to chart.
The sound they strain to hear is Her voice as the cradle to which they clutch whirls,whirls,
While drawn, ever closer, to the beat of Her open, brilliant, heart.

- by Jana Van Gorp