Up there she cries like a modest lady
Sating the parched through a heart that’s sturdy
And nurses to being the dead of the earth
And vows to multiply her mirth.
When her heaviness is great, the seas quiver
The farmer shake afraid of too much splatter
In tandem with the wind, the eagle would rather
Rest and fly when she is gladder.
Pray that the clouds are ever gentle
Be it sunny or rainy weather
Hide beneath a roof or something stable
When she starts to break her manacle.
(c) Ruth Mostrales, February 2009