The sky is dark, not by night, but by the smoke made by the burning tyres

That litter the streets in random order. The protest has moved on to light fires

Under the government offices. Whilst discontent continues, in the skies

A single helicopter aflame burns through the sky, and under its flight

Stands a single block of flats, windows broken and walls graffitied.

On the thirteenth floor, a young girl not older than thirteen

Lies sobbing on a mattress. Next to her is her lover, a man

In his forties, clutched her hand, worried that his Amanda

Will die in childbirth. There is a knock on the door, the midwife

Walks in, taking control to lessen the painful strife

That this mistaken child is causing. The sobs get louder,

Drowning the gunfire and shouts outside, the soon-to-be mother

Pushes for the last time and falls silent, asleep. The boy

Does not cry, just breaths a sigh of relief. The joy

Of the father is beyond measure, his first son

Is born, and despite all his mother is not gone.

“what is his name?” asked the midwife softly

“Adam” whispered the girl quietly.

And with that her spirit failed, her light died

The birth was too much, too trying.

And to this day, this boy creates strife

He started wars, he conquered all, till life

Itself was at his command, but then he started

To build the world afresh, to make his mother proud

That she died to bring the saviour of the world

And now she sits, with white wings furled

Gazing with eternal love at the good that he’s done

Through her death, misery and poverty was undone.