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They say things come in threes,
and I believe them
Mine is not the sorrowed song
of stillborn triplets, dead and done
My dirge springs
from a faithing test,
in a scene set within death
of my three crucibled sons
My first son,
the eldest,
my heir,
strapping strong,
mother’s sweet song,
then the fever found him there
Village elders to me did urge,
‘call the tribal priest
and our medicine man will purge’
Ancestral voices echoing,
generational beckoning
But I spurned their pleading
and turned instead
to another Voice, heeding…
Then it happened,
my first son,
the eldest,
my heir,
his body limp, bent,
Mother’s song, lament,
for the fever had taken him there
In a mourning haze,
my mind traced back
and found me on a day
and Friday we call Good,
His body racked,
up and out, my sin slayed
and there I stood
atop that skulled space
under tormented sky,
curse for grace,
He for I…
Mine is not the sorrowed song
of stillborn triplets, dead and done
My dirge springs
from a faithing test,
in a scene set within death
of my three crucibled sons
My second son,
now the eldest,
my heir,
running swift like the deer
from a mother’s gnawing fear,
then the fever found him there
Village elders to me did urge,
‘call the tribal priest
and our medicine man will purge’
I endured their threatening,
‘If you do not heed
the ancestral voices echoing,
the generational beckoning,
then behold the day of reckoning,
of exile from clan
community outcast
completely cut off’
But I spurned their pleading,
and turned instead
to another Voice, heeding…
Then it happened,
my second son,
the eldest,
my heir,
his body, limp, bent,
mother’s song, lament,
for the fever had taken him there
Again, in a mourning haze,
now doubts trace back
and find me a day
when the world went silent
I begin to listen
to the silence of doubt
Where it seems the one Person
I had trusted the most
had let me down
Is He worth it?
Doubt begins to agitate me,
like a splinter in my brain,
the vein in my temple pulsates
stress,
An external shape of distrust, etched,
like a worm upon the skin of my mind
I begin to listen
to the silence of despair,
all I’ve risked, for what?
I’ve been cheated! Betrayed!
my soul is slipping,
into the void
here
I am naked
alone
in the dark
vulnerable
I sit exposed
in Saturday’s
silence…
Mine is not the sorrowed song
of stillborn triplets, dead and done,
No.
My dirge springs
from a faithing test,
in a scene set within death
of my three crucibled sons
My third son,
now the eldest,
my heir,
our small one, at rest,
close to mother’s breast,
then the fever found him there
They no longer appear, but
their voices ring my ears,
‘call the tribal priest
and our medicine man will purge’
Ancestral voices echoing,
generational beckoning
But I spurned their pleading
and turned instead
to another Voice, heeding…
Then it happened,
my third son,
the eldest,
my heir,
his body, limp, bent,
mother’s song, lament,
for the fever has taken him there
Again, in a mourning haze,
I sat silent,
and He found me another day,
I woke within a cave
of light and dust,
the stone-cold soberness
of that Sunday morning’s haze
The cave is empty,
no one lives here anymore,
He is enough…
They say things come in threes,
and I believe them.
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