My womb doth cry and cry…
For the thing that delighteth it so,
It did not receive.
In the days past,
It hath gathereth and prepareth
A place so inviting and intimate,
Where it may conceive and nurture
The seed of a man…
But alas, the month has passed,
As many a month before it,
And none did it see.
Though the body rageth with appetite,
And expectation heighteneth in glee,
None, not a one, visited its home.
So my womb cryeth and cryeth…
In pain, it doth writhe,
And the blood doth flow.
In sorrow, it wastes…
But my womb, persistent and hopeful,
Shall gather again.
It shall surely prepare for the day,
When the seeds will come,
And the mightiest shall meet
And kiss its egg…
And conceive the thing it doth delighteth in –
The miracle God ordaineth.
And it shall yet cry
The tears of joy and fulfilment…

Photo credit: http://www.unsplash.com

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