Birth

Well, you may begin your story,

I promise patient ears sublime.

Comfort in my territory,

Residence till the end of time.

I promise-The Moon shall not pass,

shall not mock the breath of your lips,

The Choir shall call upon the grass,

Cease their twinkle as Silence drips.

Not shall Shame debauch your heart,

Nor to Wisdom ever surrender

your pure scent. The symphonies

play as the muses bathe you tender.

Angels of the night cleanse your womb,

The Divine Offspring shines in glory.

Cocained, delirious, I pen your story,

As I dust the epitaph crowning your tomb.