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Poetry Uncategorized

Mama

By Sara Zubaidi 

These familiar syllables that did frame

The feeling of perversion in my throat

For naught the bilabial nasal sound

That echoes a child’s sleepy melody,

A fleeting sprite in invention’s reverie

Felt in the birthing cries of her labour

Nor because it vibrates as the soft hum

In chambers close, untold tales softly thrum

Like notes lost in the void’s quiet breath

To hymns where willing spirits intertwine

Instead, repeated syllables throb keenly

Posing as the vivid evocation

Of how my mother preaches about her

Mama, as if she is speaking of God

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