by Nick Gisburne
The mother tends her garden with delight
And feeds the tiny children in their beds
Their skins, their scales, would wither in the light
Without the slurry smothered on their heads
They suck a poison poultice from her thumb
It gives them all nutrients they need
In time their loving mother must succumb
Together, on her body they will feed
The sacrifice is hers alone to give
No calling is more comforting than this
To die, that all these little ones may live
Fulfils her purpose in the cold abyss
Her children, seeds of wickedness, must wait
To flower in this paradise of hate