| The Tale A baby lies in Mother's arms, all warmth and happiness. The flowers bloom, the sunlight shines, A golden face at rest. And mother watches as time goes by, to see the seasons run. A sorrowed light upon her eye, stay here my little one. But wings must spread, and fly away, to other worlds unknown. Carried on the winds of change, to gain in stength and grow. A mother's tears don't matter, and a mother's cries aren't heard. The child moves on and soars in flight, the spring time flies like a bird. When summer comes, the child is grown, with hot winds spinning round. The iron is forged, and still glows bright, steam rises up in clouds. Another babe, another place has grown and fledged now too. Of woven cloth in colours fine flaps freely in the breeze The cloth is sewn, the stitches done 'tis ready to be worn. The seams are thin, yet they hold fast, and never come undone. Now blade and garment join, in battles to be fought. The blade and cloth, seemed to be lost together will be found. A baby lies in Mother's care, the blade protects her fall. And when the rain comes pouring in, the cloth warms him and all. by: Lisa Paquin (aka dragon_girl82_2000) |
| This poem was one I wrote a couple of years ago as part of a course on archetypes. If you understand archetypes, you'll understand this poem. |