Mother's Touch

Clasping on like a soldier his sword,
Little hands swaddled in
The gentle warmth of motherly care.
Eyes squinched and forehead wrinkled
At a look of the world's hasting crowds.
A voice unable to reach out and up, Towards the enduring heights
To his mother's sharpened ears.
He holds her close like indigent nomads do The bag of their only right and earning.

The cattle moves like a bat out of hell,
And a soul as little as a single raindrop in An ocean contrived by mighty rivers
Is ever so unnoticed.
The earners move and now they move
So rather like raged elephants,
A path hedged is a path stomped away.
And the white shine in innocent eyes does Not wish to yet be stormed, like many Others who willingly would.
A teeming rush deluges in,
And drags the gullible eyes away,
Away from the only home they had known.
His shrieks of panic and dire distress
Shunned to nil by the crowd's grey noise.

And as he feels the final touch of maternal concern,
Reaching for him yet dwindling away,
His mind avalanches with trembling thought.
He stands alone, as little as a second,
To face the world of a billion years.
Piercing through builts worth ten of him, Slithering away to find the touch
Of the white cottons of his mother's fate.

Seconds, twelve, stretch away to a million moments
And the sharp eyes of evil scare,
The value of a captured young is never too less.
A hand grabs him so fixedly,
And pulls away from the mortar pestle,
Wettened eyes frighten to terror and turn,
To see a mother's relief, a clinch so firm,
An embrace locked and a ruffle of hair
Finally bring the nightmare to an end.