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Mother Time

by Rose Bacud about a year ago in surreal poetry
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What to do with her

She is there, always, never left, armed with relentless patience

She is often mishandled, mislabeled, disrespected

Her children, her beloved, her own

Eons ago, many a lifetime, lost and remaining

How we see her, recognize, feel and speak to her - Be Her

Some say it’s too late, they want to bring her back, scenes that was done cannot be fixed - the point of no return.

The mother you saw, given to you as her child - she is a gift in your eyes but wait Mother Time has spoken, she turned out not.

Others lost all together- they have lost Mother Time, she is gone. We should’ve respected her, acknowledged her very presence

With generations passing by - what did you give? Pain, Love, Care we not. Did we learn, still learning? Don’t let Her go to waste

Who is She - how to we feel her? What do we do with Her?

Never too late or too early

She is Mother Time - precious and patient

To us her beloved, Our beloved Mother Time

She is a Gift, precious She is.

surreal poetry

About the author

Rose Bacud

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