Insipid mortal man
beneath the starlit sky,
swallowed up in stranger's thoughts,
enchanted by eternal nights ...
What light, this birth?
What can contain
the heart of such conception?
the cycles of pain?
What body prepared to carry on, 
to carry all,
become the son ...

He becomes again the babe,
and she, his suffering muse,
who alone can take flight
and save him
from the storms of his day
and into the darkest dark of his night.
He wanders, as he strays from his home
languishing amidst the rains without -
amidst the fires within.
And her brief stays become his all
and his salvation.
She leads him to the clear waters of life
where lie untainted the bloods of savage thievery,
and as he drinks -
as he looks up to this sacred angel,
her white wings carry them forth once more
and she grasps to her bosom
this babe
as she lets this lullaby spring forth
from her holy lips.
He knows that she can ne'er be touched
lest he fall and die,
and she, his lighted dove
must stoop to find
this wayward child, afraid,
and searching her out again each day.

(c) 2008 Jennifer