Cry the Beloved Mother

by Amber

The only time I feel free is when I imagine myself as a kite.
The string is my legs slowly floating away,
my head diamond shaped and almost touching the sun.
Smiling through ribbons tied around my stick figure.
Kissing the skin of the milky stars
and soaring past satellites when night falls.
Blowing through breezes too kind to ever think
Mother Nature is harsh
But we’ve been judging her since disasters have struck,
and do you really blame her?

Any mother would cry if her children turned on her the way we have.
Stuck knives into her skin and bled her from the inside out.
Clawed her skin from her bones and burnt her veins with our acid touch.
Yet we still have the nerve to call her home.
When she speaks to us with anger
We act surprised playing innocent.

There is only so much playing innocent we can do
before the balance is tipped against us.
We slaughter her in the middle of the night,
the most horrific death she has been battling for centuries,
yet when the sun sets we sleep in her womb.
She will keep us safe in slumber
That’s the beauty of a mother.
We always have a home within her arms, within her heart.

We track across her lines that she has carved so deep for us,
and sail across the tears of a million years of aching,
to try and find a place to plant our own seeds.
Seeds that will grow into cherry blossoms with our last names,
and hope that those seeds will do the deeds
that we could not conceive,
that we could not achieve.

Hope that these little grains of life
could undo all the wrongs that we have done,
all the betrayals that we spun into our Mother’s web of life.
Because she trembles every time we spit on her,
the ground cracks wide open while her body shakes
as she breaks down and cries oceans that crash into her rocky lips
wavering under the shame we have put upon our own name.

Our own flesh and blood, she closes her eyes
too ashamed to look at us any more,
covers up the glass sky with pollution clouds so thick
she doesn’t have to look into our eyes.

Lifts her backbone, erupting lava hoping to burn away
years of disappointment from the land,
years of all the back stabbing we have done.
And she holds her head in her hands and wails at our lost generations,
if you listen carefully you can hear her screams through the wind.
Any mother would do this over her lost children.

So I like to imagine myself as a kite, flying over high tide,
because I can’t bear to hear our Mother cry
while we sleep inside this machine we think keeps us safe.
I’d rather be floating than chained to this ground
choking on the lies they’re shoving down our throats,
revoke our rights and say we’re wrong to revolt.
I’m dancing with Orion’s Belt tonight with eyes closed
and I’m never looking down,
because like our Mother
I can’t seem to look at this world the same.

Art work – Pics #1,2,3: THE AGONY OF GAIA ~ Jeff Chapman-Crane
~ BIG OIL & MOUNTAIN TOP REMOVAL ~

Art work – Pic #4: MOTHER OF THE WORLD Nicholas Roerich

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