She cries herself to sleep

I know this woman,

like my grandmother she cares and she shares benevolently

she nears the time where her heels wear wearily on the soles of an incessant feet

she bares the heat

she struggles relentlessly so her children never see her tears

she fears

she loses the battle when one child can trace the tracks of her face

so

she's the kind of woman that sobs silently at night

she confesses only to the confinement of dusk

she trusts their sacred dialouge

she cries and the night listens

the moon glistens as you see the salty tears treacle gently down to her withering lips

she has flashbacks of when she had hips

they would sway in cadence to the sound of eligible men

back when

her land was furtile and it could bore wild herbs and fruits with deep roots

rich fruits that her old husband would supper on

wild juices so supple he drank on

flashbacks of nights when that same moonlight would glare into the act of love making

the moon keeps guard;

watches two lovers unite and depart in constant rhythmic motions

her lair was the ocean and each night they would swim in it

but now she comes back every night to where she is now

wishing her ocean wasnt this saharan abyss

she longs for a kiss from old husband

hates that she misses old husband

or the fact that even for one night, old husband could never hold her tight again

so she makes do with the companion of the night

and that faithful moonlightas she cries herself to sleep...

again.