.
I am as "cursed" as each mother has been since the first,
for giving my children a soup or some bake from the fire.
Is only natural for a child to play, even throw more wood,
as every word they learn is an extending echo
coming from the past and for ever reaching the future:
"Do not play with the fire or you may get burned"
I did share those echos with the most young...
my children received all the knowledge,
playing with fire and getting burned eventually,
vinegar was always a good remedy
softening my children eventual pain,
for flames indeed burn, and children indeed play.
But the fire is always blinding to men of mature age
when they are too deeply looking for phrases
putting words to be made into the image of a "victim",
blowing their own verses like the hot dry wind from their lips
whenever struck by the lightning of opportunity,
stepping to firmly cross words well spoken,
as the words from the only man I ever loved were crossed,
for he jumped not from temples like my children do,
nor he flew through the air mounted on a goat,
but knew how to play flying, running with a staff.
Take my hand instead, I told him,
the only one I ever wanted, who took not my love
yet he was already loved and his heart already taken,
normally there is always another woman
another mother's body waiting with a child.
so I am bewitched to ever love, not chosen,
parted from his voice but not from his words.
My children are always women, innocent, juvenile, pretty,
their daughters never had a baby boy until very recently
and I am closer to the child than to any other men,
them who wrote about me, lusting intellect or carnally vengeful,
made me the main reference for the more impressionable,
I am indeed intellectual food source for treacherous impotence,
I feed the heresies, bewitched, I cause sterility on every hateful word
but my cows never stopped giving milk, for drinking the milk were my children,
happy, satisfied, fulfilled... not in need of blessing water.
I am not a creation of the faithful, nor am I mothering any Inquisition...
many believed in my existence throughout time as a threat to existing orders,
like many still wish for today.... however I am, I do not really exist imaginary.
The thirteenth century hysteria grew around the existence of satanic beauties
destabilizing the influence of those intimidating like red horned devils,
desiring no more than other man's lips, and their own similar flesh,
impotent to my beautiful, cult, wild satanic daughters,
relentlessly drowned them in their blessed water, and lit fires,
and to their morbid pleasure the female beauties holocaust began.
My children use bones to create amazing ritual instruments
and have broomsticks against the walls, our house is impeccably clean,
music sounds much before the sun rises, aborted as a premature expulsion
from the remnants of the night, to participate in the earliest moments
of each morning almost sexual energetic orgies just outside our window.
I travel from human spirit to animal spirit and vice-versa,
but I cannot change sex like Angels "magnified" to human,
nor will I ever have a stick to be measured like a fallen,
nor will I suffer from being cut, reduced, for too big or too long,
so I swear eternal obedience to myself, my body receives only my own mark,
for I was also made, and made with a Soul, and that's between me and my maker.
I celebrate, I dance, I eat and drink in presence,
not attending celebrations just to be there
in the form of a hideous and deformed black billy-goat.
I consisted as a parody of the inquisitors,
a tortured suspect until willing to confess to anything for the pain to stop.
I always confess to everything, and even more, so much more...
and so do my children just before their first deadly embrace,
yet I never forget that part of my extreme wealth,
that which only comes to me if by partial deliveries
they can "wisely" use through time for new materials
to their continued witch hunting manuals concept,
so there are not numerous of my confessions recorded
yet in the files used as evidence I am a "cursed" mother,
I am as "cursed" as each mother has been since the first,
for giving my children a soup or some bake from the fire...
and Is only natural for a child to play, even throw more wood,
as every word they learn is an extending echo.
Much was added to popular belief about me
with urine and dirty water I replaced the wine, they said,
but for moldy bread I never replaced my children's word,
held in the native language, rather than tossed broken texts
where black reads white and white reads black
and where written back to front not even middles matter
becoming a morbid parody on every detail.
My children I offer to the fire any day or night,
everything but that warm blessing water,
for with the fire they play and enjoy, even throw more wood
my children received all the knowledge,
playing with fire and getting burned eventually,
vinegar was always a good remedy,
and the joy of playing children could not remain
completely hidden from the days to come
and now is no longer believed I could fly on broomsticks
but I am still able to disappear, I still have my creams and magical oils,
escaping crosses or crucifixes and even turning to other way,
any other way but not one ending as sacrifice and fundamental ritual.
The human animal or vice-versa is described completely uniform
while I travel from human spirit to animal spirit and vice-versa,
but I cannot change sex like Angels "magnified" to human,
nor will I ever have a stick to be measured like a fallen,
nor will I suffer it being cut, reduced, for too big or too long,
so I swear eternal obedience to myself, my body receives only my own mark,
for I was also made, and made with a Soul, and that's between me and my maker,
and so do my children, my favored daughters, all their beauty and cult wilderness,
and now I have my daughters' sons too, and their stick is naturally small,
those with the scissors already told me they do not need rectification,
so that painful cut is not needed, all is inside the divine measure,
and I am a "cursed" mother who always had daughters,
but do have now my own generation of men, born from my satanic beauties
to be as perfect as the only man I ever loved,
for he stepped to firmly cross with words well spoken,
yet he jumped not from temples like my children do,
nor he flew through the air mounted on a goat,
but knew how to play flying, running with a staff.
Take my hand instead, I told him,
the only one I ever wanted, who took not my love
he was already loved and his heart already taken,
normally there is always another woman
another mother's body waiting with a child.
so I am bewitched to ever love, not chosen,
parted from his voice but not from his words,
I still bath with magical oils while I rest alone,
and I am smeared with a cream to make me disappear,
from the sight of those still referencing the compendium
of "cursed" badly spoken mothers,
I am as "cursed" as each mother has been since the first,
but my children I offer to the fire any day or night,
everything but that warm blessing water,
for with the fire they play and enjoy,
even throw more wood.
Much was added to popular belief about me
with urine and dirty water I replaced the wine, they said,
but for moldy bread I never replaced my children's word,
held in the native language, rather than tossed broken texts
where black reads white and white reads black
and where written back to front not even middles matter
becoming a morbid parody on every detail.
.
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