Rosa

My Granny kept her faith, stayed sane,

Through poverty and loss and pain,

To somehow cope with daily want:

A soul that naught in life could daunt.

Not losing six of fourteen born,

Not fighting sickness, hunger-worn,

Not grappling with her man gone mad,

Beat to defeat by luck, all bad.

Not watching six of her live eight

Go wrong and bad, just two left straight.

God rest her now! She then grew old,

And coughing, shivering, always cold,

At eighty-three, burnt out inside,

Sick all her last ten years she died.

And cruelest irony of all,

She said she heard no savior's call,

No, rather came, by agony,

To hate priests' patronizing "we".

Told one good son: "O Frank, don't cry!

Don't pray I'll live! Frank, pray I'll die!"