The love of a mother for her last child is a deep as that for the first. |
My Last Child This small lovely creature So tiny and new, Who seems to know all From times long forgotten.. Could this be my child? A gentle old soul Who's been here forever, Struggling through this life Not knowing what is expected now. Could this be my child? Hurt by change And this life we live Trying to understand. Could this be my child? Always contented When just a babe As if she knew That life is a game Not to be taken seriously And she came to play. Could this be my child? Rarely a tear, Always a smile, No matter what hurt Life threw at her -- And there were times of pain Enough to make a strong man cry. Could this be my child? Sometimes I think not. A changeling perhaps? Meant for another life One of comfort and ease She's been thrown into a lifestyle So very wrong for her. Bewildered by being The child of a gypsy She has become inflexible, Yet vulnerable to a point That is painful to see Could this be my child? This dark lovely woman, Beautiful and kind, Her eyes deep and knowing With innocence and fear, Her smile is not lightly given A prize to be won But worth every effort It touches your heart. Yes, this is my child... © Copyright 1998 The Gypsy Widow |