Ghazal of a 17th Century Mother

I want the clovers to go on without their drink
and the sun to beam without charring the earth

I want the faeries to dance without my children
and my soul to be without its fearful tremoring

If only the men could work without the little ones hands
and then the children would not labor till their death

I want the midnight wind to send my chills to God
So he will feel them on the shoulder he has turned to me

I can hear the patter of feet on the
hills covered green, mixed with pixie giggles

I fight the pooka who is forcing my eyelids to close
wanting to keep them stamped shut

But dont let the sky be painted in orange jubilee while narrow beds
grow warm from the sun, instead of from your babys wriggling bodies

Now leave me in my darkness where I can still my darlings
But do not let your eyes surrender