I see these mountains of simple folk descend on me,
these glowing orbs of feminine spirits rush down
like a marching army to strike me with wonder,
If this was an empowerment between us, O Motherhood(!)
of ancestral women blowing through an emancipating wind
a magic glow, like a heraldry that shouts the indispensability
of the womb and the Goddess taking shape in ordinary but noble women;
of a long forgotten Matriarchal tradition that still sticks in my mind.
I hear trumpets playing and cherubim pirouetting in nests
of little homes made of fragile clay, still standing over the centuries;
where boys and girls grew in a legacy of cultured morals and lithe grace.
We are nimble in the fields and in the grasses and in the trees
Our spirits are like petals nurtured in dew relived in every
flowering season! Our strength is in the high hills that
boulder the horizon, that still feeds our homes with divine
sacred secrets. O Mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, wise in the wisdom
shared with metal-artifciers and craftsmen who left Beulah for humble
Varca’s shores, that we become ourselves again in a chrysalis, over and
over, in time, where the butterflies never lose their wings to death
but are reimagined and re-formed and beatified in an eternal re-creation!
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