Mothers' Night

cascading
shards uneasy
echoes
falling
"It's our calling."
**** of Earth, hot spurts of words
savage knives
Abiding
Mothers, sacred and mundane
twist into harridan
cold stars

wailing, hurtling waves
Sad, old, crust of ages sliced,  
*******, carved up for profit
"It's not the color of the skin,
the culture of the smile"
the scent of danger,
the inborn stranger -- all excuses for
Us (superior) and Them (inferior)
"They are not like we;
but lower curs."
we may harm with unfettered glee
Cursed to be cut
to our requirement. Borders clear
"Here, fear fences in
our livelihood and wives."
Leave THEM to  
putrid pits
cunning jabs, our pleasure.

Thus all treasure that might
regale, heal, reveal true worth,
of man and Earth
sold for pittance of potash
to dance a weary jig