Mike Arnold


She is the nucleus of creation, the cradle, the whomp in which she creates numerous thoughts and emotions in this one entity, this one life. A string of tiny things woven into her inner garden of growth and finally ejected into a world of questions to which she provides answers. Her heartbeat, the first lullaby, her essence, the fertile ground in which the seed falls to become wonderful, to become a mirror of the Universe. 

She is the hand that cools the throbbing forehead, she is the hand that holds the trembling self in secure grip when the flashes of time cleave the dark sky, when the first kiss ebbs away into a farewell, when bones are shattered, when fallen. It is her kiss that heals the cut, her advice that keeps the eternal night at bay.  

She is the one who decides to leave the perils behind, accepting loss and being ostracized, accepting fate, shaping it to her own will and is ever giving, ever nurturing, ever caring. Even when her home-town falls under the fire of wrath, meaningless wrath that bears no spark of creation, is mere devastation, her mind is set on preservation, on nurturing. 

She is strong but seeking, sees her children, asks herself about decisions, about possibilities, but only in love she is clear; it sets her feet into motion, holds her up at night, when a little body is gleaming, burning. In her will unsurpassed, in her determination unyielding, she is a Mother.

Dedicated to the fair maiden of the river-city and your strong heart


All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Mike Arnold.
Published on e-Stories.org on 05/02/2023.


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