It's we who give birth to males with their strong palms not from a smile

it's we who give birth to males with their strong palms not from a smile
but from pain and earth - smelling the way mown grass smells in the
July sun
in our entrails' deep canyons
there are moss-padded nests and there are baby birds
and the mystery of existence occurs there known to no one
and the layers of prehistory grow unrecorded
above our foreheads renaissance after renaissance floats, golden clouds
before our eyes the Middle Ages kneel lost in thought
while we quiet like Mary humbly accept
the thirst of our wombs and our arms' destiny