BUT MOTHER

by John Herlihy

1
“Mother!
They write poems,”
The curious angel said,
Looking down upon earth
At the scribbling scribe.
“They are poems,”
The patient mother replied.

2
“But mother,”
The naughty cherub insisted.
“They sit in shadows.”
The knowing mother smiled.
“But they shine their own light,”
The observant mother replied.

3
“But mother,”
The confused cupid went on.
“They have emotions
And shatter into pieces.”
The mother said with fondness.
“They are human,” she said,
“And as fragile as glass.”

4
“But mother,”
The wayward jinn uttered in frustration
“We are made of fire.”
The gentle mother smiled once more.
“They are made of water and clay
And as such have their own way.”

5
“But mother,”
The relentless child went on,
“We are faithful
And do what others say.”
The mother again responded:
“They are free to be faithful
And so they are free to pray.”

6
“But mother,”
The resolute seraph concluded,
“They are weak and end up dying,”
"True," mother said and deeply sighed.
“But the soul reaps what it sows
And goes on living forever.”