(Dedicated to all Mother’s Worldwide)
The fan in the room is spinning,
The woman is far from grinning,
Hands on her waist leaning against the wall,
Her total outlook? Ready for a brawl.
She sighs and hisses angrily,
Discomfort seems to set in permanently,
GOD help me! She pleads aloud,
Tugging into her hair,she lets out a shout.
Though the weather was quite cool,
She looked dipped in a pool,
Her forehead had thick beads of sweat,
Sighing deeply she tries to catch her breath.
She demands for her husband,
Believing he’d have the magic wand,
To chase away her pain,
So she could smile again.
She lets out another scream,
As the pain gets to the brim,
She demands to have a swim,
As her brain sets out on a whim.
She swore this would be the only one,
Never again such horror for a child to be born,
She wondered how her mum had eight times bore such pain,
Oh my GOD! She yells as pangs come biting hard again…
Suddenly she became very calm and silent,
Looking up she smiled and wow she looked so innocent,
But within a twinkling the smile turns to a frown,
The nurses thought they’d need the services of a clown.
Her husband comes into the delivery room,
Panic-stricken he watches her pathetic facial gloom,
She limps across to him and tries to throw him a fist,
Shocked by her angry gesture he quickly holds onto her wrist.
You wicked man! She yelled at him ravingly ranting,
You’ll soon be fine he calmly replied,please stop panting,
You’re putting me through hell! She yelled at him again,
He wished he could subject her pains to flow down the drain…
The nurses said,you have to leave cause madam wants a fight,
Making to go he looks at her,pitying her plight,
You’ll soon be alright he said and blew a kiss at her,
Her response was a face of steel and eyes of iron bars.
‘Tis such a mystery the force that births a child,
But its process,never known as blissful and mild,
When its pain comes suddenly,it scarcely can hide,
Overcoming one with the roughness of a tide.
Everyone both humans and animals are in this manner brought forth,
There’s numerical increase despite the labour’s hot,
This on-going procedure GODS’ decree has so wrought,
Ones’ offspring is akin to the covering of a clothe.
PoetonicElla™