The Holy Council of Mothers and Daughters

Here in these halls,
We rarely bow our heads

But tilt our ears
Towards the trembling lips
Of these, our sisters.

And listen.
And listen.

And they shall be
Lifted from the tawdry
Castle of the mind,

And brought forth.

Blood of the Moon.
Sore shoulders.
Weary eyes.

Who shall bear these trophies
Of pyrrhic victory?

Lovers of fire and blood,
Whose alms shall become the torch
And the shining face
Of hope eternal.