into the night fire red did you run to houses of ill repute
to dance and sing upon the hands of cousins, laughs, men
who swung you round the night lit sky with silks and flowers streaming high.
Oh mother of Saint Edward be free from the pain of life and your own misery,
which fed and bolstered your bitter roots to keep you acting without truth.
The words and answers we all found were lying there upon the ground
where your roots were firmly planted, the light dim as you chanted
prayers to virgins unlike you, as you swelled too soon.
Gave your life to babies and men, who never even thanked again
the sacrifice that was your life.
Deep in the cityscape, you built a garden on concrete steps,
to plant upon this precipice a life of love and joy of tune,
to give you one last bit of peace, a song, a dance, in balmy June,
this is my work that I will endure, your roots taken flight
I will be your midnight bloom.
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