Love is not like the mother's womb,
where we dwell awhile and in peace sleep,
only to depart at the ninth moon.

It is like the grave, the stony tomb,
that imprisons our bones forever in its' iron grip.
Love is not like the mother's womb.

Little ones on dark night, see not the cruel goon,
who with silence rage, into the lustful heart does slip.
Only to depart at the ninth moon.

Foolish men who frolicked with the pleasant doom,
and learn, too late, the waning infautation they do keep.
Love is not like the mother's womb.

Wild rose, in spring rain, flourish and bloom,
with huge meandering roots, it dares the hades deep.
Only to depart at the ninth moon.

Pretty lady, fair as the bright noon,
make hay, hasten me not to fix the missing rib.
Love is not like the mother's womb,
only to depart at the ninth moon.

okoye charles

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-is-not-like-the-mother-s-womb/