In the small hours of a wet September morn,
round the corner of a dark salon,
in a hut with yellow gleaming lights,
on the windy hills where birds take flight,
echoes the cry of innocent born.

Behind the flimsy gaping door of cedar ply,
amidst the sting of alcohol and lye,
midwives move with mature grace,
learned from many midnights lived apace,
to perpetuate new life and death deny.

In the corner of a room behind a curtain spread,
on a skinny cot layered in sheets of red,
underneath a cloth of white,
breathing air of warm respite,
lies the youthful mother with a heart of lead.

By the cot and facing out the window,
draped in dusky fleece and hidden from the glow,
stood the lanky grizzled father,
the bawling babe in arms under his cover,
with fierce delight upon his brow.

On a bright and balmy eve one April day,
down the grassy slope where children play,
by the rocky banks of a river wide,
which the village near their means provide,
a child of four meanders stray.

Atop the windy hill above the steady stream,
below white cotton clouds that carry dreams,
beneath the brittle rotting thatch lies her,
the youthful mother with another scar,
sewing up her gaping seams.

At the table decked with pots and pans,
an empty bottle in his hand,
the grizzled father rests his heavy head,
swirling to the clouds a vision of a life unled,
growing dark and far beyond command.

Far beyond the soft orange horizon,
disregarded by the souls in constant motion,
faint against the rapid twilight on the run,
some lives end and some has just begun,
and one demands persuasion.

In a summer night between the dangers of a squall,
the air suspended by the crickets’ call,
while the buck roams far from sight,
and the doe ponders a maiden fight,
the final tooth of innocence falls.

In a monsoon afternoon of cloudbursts and deluge,
taking harvests and huts by the roots,
rivers claiming lands and lives,
dry and hale experience arrives,
guiding youth into her intimate refuge.

In a winter morn of sharpest frosts and deepest fogs,
when colour wilts and fire slogs,
warm and vigorous calamity appears,
blighting minds and fixing fear,
folly flies amok among the foolish dogs.

In the comfort of a springtide noon,
when water grows anew and hearts festoon,
broken vows and loves amend,
smiles return and witless thugs ascend,
but the fickle grounds remain maroon.

In a wuthering December night some ages gone,
when the fearsome gales whistled alone,
atop a grassy hill where morals vied,
in a time when golden lustres lied,
a girl bemoaned her fate bygone.

In the lifetime that pursued the night,
leaden hearted but abiding dreams of flight,
girl attained a might fashioned from trials,
a woman now of persistent denials,
she aspires filial love’d ignite.

Against abiding tempests and vile storms,
aspirations cloister ethics from reform,
till the punished bough fissures and splits,
and the sinews of vigour forfeits,
then compassion like a stranger roams.

In a weary hour of a mellow winter dusk,
nigh on twenty summers since the painful husk,
deaf to earnest prayers and petitions,
turning love to vulgar imprecation,
the calf has grown familiar tusks.

In the small hours of a dry September morn,
round an unkempt garden full of thorns,
in a house with windows filled with gloom,
atop a hill where flowers bloomed,
echoes the pains of hateful scorn.

Behind the sturdy door of oaken gleam,
amidst debris of broken dreams,
flies and maggots scurry with instinctual haste,
learned from eons of survival race,
drifting in the flow of nature’s stream.

In the corner of a room behind a barren wall,
on a kingly platform draped in crimson pall,
lies a hideous clown with open mouth,
trailing odours of vermouth,
eyes wide open like an antique doll.

By the platform lies a leaden axe,
bleeding heavy from a fatal hex,
and above it stood a figure tall,
looking out the window at the coming squall,
spying frenzied footprints of the next.

Image created in OpenAI Dall.E

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