centre of the sun.

a mother sits
at the centre of the sun
the taste of bread
texture of silk
sound of rain, lost to her
the only darkness found
in the depths of her gaze

she cradles her child
so still, he rests
small head on her chest
one hand holds him tightly
the other clenched in his hair
so still, never cries
neither dead nor alive
his heartbeat fading
she clings to the lie

the heat rages
clear flames are relentless
burning in the skies
scalding blanket softly smothers
dry ground; it aches with thirst
as the boy is gently prised
from a slowly dying grasp

the mother holds on
not scorching heat
not the anger of the storm
not the men that ate her flesh
nor the women filled with scorn
will take her child away

the flickering breeze
carried the whispers
of her sentence
inevitably damned
but the dream of her smiling boy
could never be taken
never stolen
despite the world
with all its difference
and all its charm

she waited
child in arms
at the centre of the crowd
for the first stone
piece of rock to be thrown
let them come.