Where is the love that yields the finest
cant of sacrifice? Where is the poignant
knife that steals a newborn’s nascent life?
In the love of a mother who strangles her
child so that quiet may save lives destined
to be destroyed – in the night of despair,
in a wretched blight of fear consummate,
in the lore of the tribe. In the giving and
the serving love is immaculate but none is
as bright as the light of love in a mother’s
eyes with tears falling silently on the still
warm corpse of her just strangled child.
© 18 July 2007, I.D. Carswell