Matriarch of
the tribe, the clan, head of one and all,
Wielding
power from heaven & sky´s cloistered hall,
Spinning
spells of seasons through old spiders webs,
Conducting
orchestras through the songbird´s nebs.
Voice of
thundered drum and glinted lightening eyes,
The reason
why night is born when the gold day dies,
Spitting sandy
storms of hail and cruel cold iced snow,
You´re the reason
why young seedlings pop and grow.
Goddess of nature,
Maid, Mother and the ancient Crone,
The reason why
we call this earth, our one and only home,
With saline tears
of ire, of rain and of all our birthing blood,
Our weary footsteps,
on death, left upon your corporal mud.
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