They bore thee not in ease, but in crucible flame,
Nine moons of tempest, no laurels, no fame.
Mood-swung maelstroms, spine cleft by steel,
Yet she bore thy breath no barter, no deal.
Anesthetic hush, then blade’s cruel hymn,
Scissor-born silence, backache grim.
She sits not in solace, nor lies in grace,
Her vertebrae chant thy name in trace.
Father, the silent steward of coin and creed,
Barters his breath for thy school-need.
He eats last, dreams less, buys none but thee,
Yet thou trade his love for a boy’s decree.
We, the heirs of sacrificial lore,
Sell legacy for lust, and ask no more.
Hide truths in shadow, veil hearts in guile,
For a fleeting flame that lasts a while.
Doth he thy paramour, thy fevered muse
Know thy soul’s ache, thy silent bruise?
Will he rise at dawn to fetch thy cure,
Or vanish at dusk, love insecure?
Parents primordial poets of pain
Are cast to margins, cold disdain.
We rage at their rebuke, spit at their plea,
Yet kneel to a lover’s tyranny.
When mother weeps, we turn our face,
But for a boyfriend’s silence, we lose grace.
We beg, we bend, we break, we bleed
Yet for our parents, we sow no seed.
Shame be thy shroud, betrayal thy crown,
Where womb-born bonds are cast down.
No lover’s touch, no whispered vow,
Can match the love they gave till now.
So let this verse be thy dirge, thy flame,
For children who forget their name.
Return to the roots, the sacred tree
For none shall love as endlessly.
This poem is a dirge for forgotten roots — a lament for children who trade unconditional love for fleeting romance, who rage at parental care yet kneel to the whims of temporary affection. It honors the pain, sacrifice, and silent devotion of parents, especially mothers whose bodies bear the cost and fathers whose dreams are bartered for their children’s futures. A call to remember, to return, to revere.
