The Bedouin woman seems old and tired.
Her favorite son's star is tattooed
inside her heart. Outside hangs that bloody
cross. Every morning she places a golden
dome upon her head, becoming a beacon
for all those dead.

Her oldest has returned from a bitter
exile and inhuman fate, displacing his
brother from their Mother's side. She cried
sanguine tears for many thousand years
to have him back, but he is not of her,
like before.

Her children play their cruel games
at her ancient, brittle feet. All are hers
from Fathers now buried deep. Her old hands,
brown and warm, cannot comfort, anyone,
anymore. She will live for ever.
She is the mother of them all.

Mike Acker

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bedouin-woman/