Waves of anger,
Course through enraged veins,
Eyes spotted with crimson stains,
Incensed, she boils over;

Mother makes her mad,
Says things she hates,
Treats her lesser than her mates,
And plays the nagging card;

Sometimes she wonders,
If she sprung from this root,
She seeks the truth,
Day and night, she ponders;

So mother brings wine,
Stretches the crystal, tall glass,
With a smile, she makes the pass,
Then all, again, is pleasant and fine;

Deep down inside,
She knows,
Love flows,
And with this she weathers the tide.