This poem sings of mother’s craft
For at mother’s feet, this painter becomes a druid
Lost in the runes of lines and verses
/Without the craft of magic
For home is the land between lines and margins
And this pen is a history of how I find my way home

There is no poet without prophecy
And mother’s pen is how I claim my identity
Birthed in ancient promises yonder
The poet is a battlefield, the war, and the warrior:
A struggle for meaning, fulfilment and non-sense
But mother has prepared me for war and,
This clash is how I flaunt my craft, my magic.

There is no poet without magic
And I am the oracle, the diviner and the divination,
Crafted at the hands of mother’s fountain:
Of springs and silence, of wars and truce, of prophecy and error

I become a poet at mother’s feet/
Blessed those footprints that imprint grace:
A fountain in the desert that births meaning, craft, and magic.