The counselor asked the couple how long,
How long they had known their child before he had passed,
Into the other world.
A year differentiated their answers,
Bitter taste of confusion set in the air,
The man that was once a father,
Said he only knew his son for a little over sixteen summers,
While the mother replied in the positive,
Overcompensating for his misunderstanding,
For how could her significant other,
Have known what it was meant to feel,
The other nine months.
A nine layered universe spun thread,
Through a nine tiered temple pinhead,
Spinning the wheel,
Creating a nine-month womb.
A seed he may have planted, no doubt,
Times spent accounting to pumps about,
Morning intercourse set the course,
For the son to rise, chase the moon, and the horse.
Oh! Great Mother tended to the ground,
In which the seed he planted, she found,
Nourished and slept with, gave rest,
Listened to and whispered wisdom too,
Foundation set stone by stone,
Gifting her son the opportunity to make his bones.
Years went by and although he grew and grew,
This adolescent couldn’t escape fatherly sins,
So a mixed destiny was the hand he drew,
To make up for debt loaned out to kin,
Traditional rituals he passed,
Making the most out of the hunt,
Using all, wasting none, nothing to shun.
But time revolves in a circle, doesn’t follow a line,
Everything catches up, down to the number, prime,
The prophecy set in the moment the umbilical cord separated,
Would be the day, slain, he would lay, cremated.
So the mother weeps, fertilizing the next round,
Where more seed may abound,
A mother’s cry for a son lost,
Is the noise life makes, the sound.
A nine-month cycle repeats one more,
The whole of mankind encapsulated in this musical score.