The Bedouin woman seems old and tired. <br />Her favorite son's star is tattooed <br />inside her heart. Outside hangs that bloody <br />cross. Every morning she places a golden <br />dome upon her head, becoming a beacon <br />for all those dead. <br /> <br />Her oldest has returned from a bitter <br />exile and inhuman fate, displacing his <br />brother from their Mother's side. She cried <br />sanguine tears for many thousand years <br />to have him back, but he is not of her, <br />like before. <br /> <br />Her children play their cruel games <br />at her ancient, brittle feet. All are hers <br />from Fathers now buried deep. Her old hands, <br />brown and warm, cannot comfort, anyone, <br />anymore. She will live for ever. <br />She is the mother of them all.<br /><br />Mike Acker<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bedouin-woman/
