Mother is white in the opache moon.


My mother is white in the Opache moon.
She is black by the crystal sea.
She is lit by the sun and shadowed by the dawn.
She is fragmented in the twilight of her golden memory.

My Mother is White in the Opache Moon.

She will rise a golden statue in
cleopatras tomb.
She is no longer afraid of shadows or dark laughter.
She admires her reality in the transient orb of truth.
A queen without a throne without a slave.

My Mother is White in the Opache Moon.

Melting in the love of her children she submits.
Their love cradles the babe in holy clothes.
Born again into a world of neiophites
The face of death leaves her insight, her memories.

My Mother is White in the Opache Moon.

Shattered like glass, fragmented in her reality.
Now she will be buried whole, not half a person.
Not a statue nor a figure of fun, but as my mother.
My mother is white in the Opache Moon.

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