All English Sonnets
Lullabies of mothers are the stuff,
With which the dreams are made, heaven reached,
And though this life is really very rough
But all impossibilities are breached.
By mothers, Their own progeny are kings,
Pre-destined to be rulers kind and tough,
And when a mother for her infant sings
Her soulful prayer, though her voice is gruff,
Such heady systemic music it creates,
That lisping sound of cooing is enough;
It all realities obliterates,
Intangible like infant’s rasping cough
Is lullaby of mother full of dreams.
But tangible and lovely to her seems.