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Son's Exile

S. L. Gordon

Requiescat in Pacem, Mater, my sorrowful Mother,
Kisman and Son, hence driven, tumultous decision,
Do you still know, do you remember
How much your heart yearns for him?

Mother, know you the kindness of the Mob,
Mercy for a son who has fallen short?
Tis envy that sends one to the stocks, sins
Violence -- belittled by skillful tongues.

Struggle, merely for crumbs to eat from the ground,
If only to touch your son, bending, reaching down.
Still, before there is further destruction
Bitter, angry voices, the cursing multitude, Listen.

Sighs from troubled depths of your soul burst forth
Touched by slender, moist tears
The goodness in your noble face, forgotten,
Arousing your spirit, your terror arousing.