Her hands elaborate, her tongue discriminates,
Her story boasts, of truths and pains,
To share and teach, but tear and wretch.
She is angry, she is mad,
Neither is happy, nor glad,
Her daughter listens, ears to complaints,
Nurtures devils, to comfort and revenge.
Oh, if this will end, the sound will die,
Her soul finds comfort and joy,
But, the chirping of birds and crickets remain,
To end she predicts, but to no ends.