Death of Pain

She was the proud mother
Like the hard tree
Suddenly surprised,
Overwhelmed
By the appearance of tender leaves
All over itself,
She was swept off her feet
By the new birth.

She cuddled the baby
Held it close to her
She had felt it pulsating
Growing inside her,
Filling her whole being
With nothing else
But itself,
Smothering her,
Rending her apart,
Tearing her flesh into shreds,
Anointing her with pure, sacred blood.

She clutched at it,
Esctatic in her agony,
Proud of her pain.
She clung to it,
Adamantly believing in past springs
When she could no longer do so in winter.
She held onto the dead body,
Carrying it proudly
Waving it like a flag,
Loud advertisment of pain.

But the dead body shrivelled,
Decayed,
Changed its chemistry of appearances
From greenness to emptiness,
And one day,
She realized the death of pain as well.
Shattered,
Leaving the ashes,
She emerged,
With a bowed head,

Humble.