The Night Was One Of Curdled Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

The night was one of curdled
Milk
And black dreams

O! my mother!
You would be eighty-nine
Today!

Your birthday in the bier
Below the earth
Sad you note but not celebrate.

And my heart speaks
And my heart weeps
And my heart moves
As black clouds move
As curdled milk of black
As days
Of history with a frown in black.

How many lines and verse
I lost my mother
These days of weeping:
All your fault and
All your gracious gift.

Now
Now that I string again my lyre
I feel my hands are stronger
I feel the Dawn yet sad
But my eyes rise
And my voice slowly chants
Your name, my mother,
Mother of the Poet-Seer.

O mother, my mother!