The way she speaks is like spiritual poetry intertwined with a psychedelic trip
You can feel her presence ringing from her voice, when she sings to her baby’s crib
Appreciate the stagnancy and the tremors of her speech, she’s still consistent with it
She’ll bathe you in her energy with her palms, clothe you with what she sees fit
In the heights of a mountain, she’s still the tree with its roots embracing the Earth
Like her arms can’t get enough of the world’s light, as if to seek where the darkness lurks
Her patience was birthed out of her childhood anger, refusing to recycle the hurt
Admiration follows where she walks, ‘cause she respected and adored herself first
Prays when the birds have awoken her with their song, that her sons won’t grow up to harm
That they’ll be able to cradle softness in their arms, that no masculinity is from a need to perform
That the ones from her womb were birthed with gold to adorn, that they’ll never be subject to scorn
So her sons will feel that prosperity is natural, as if conditional love and neglect is foreign
Zen Hatlang