Father I pray for Rita
The days are going by without her cruise missile!
Iíve found mine
May she find hers!
I hate to see her laugh her laugh alone!
Let hers come to her from the pentagons of cupid!
It is the students of the wayward angel
That dine alone
And you have redeemed her from their ways
Let that rock from which her granite
Came come to her in no time
Then grind their breaths at your
And mould one true being to dwell
On your hills
And bring true comfort to we of
Without the mortar,
The song of the pestle
Is one solitary croak
Rampaging a corner...
Without the pestle, the mortar is one
Thick madam yearning for love with a sun-tint face
Whenever the mortar sights the pestle,
She bleeds with joy!
Whenever the pestle sights the mortar,
He pounds with joy!
The kids, the lambs are partners in
Progress on the pastures of life
Donít talk of one without the other and
Expect the village to retain its firesongÖ
Sentinel Poetry (Online) #51 † ISSN 1479-425X
THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF POETRY & GRAPHICS...since December 2002
Editor-in-Chief: Amatoritsero Ede