Sons

Its only this,

No, nothing much to it,

Its just that,

My womb, its my womb,

Its incapable of holding sons,

In it.

I've tried,

I honestly have.

After nine pregnancies,

Four miscarriages,

And four daughters,

What else could I do?

I didn't want them,

I swear I didn't want them.

Those girls I mean.

I punish them daily,

Punish them for being born,

Born to me.

They don't understand,

They never have,

They have sons of their own.

They say I'll go to hell,

And never to heaven,

For I've daughters of my own.

What do I do?

Where do I go from here?

My mother-in-law says,

And so does my sister-in-law,

They say I'm cursed,

With an incurable disease.

Its just this,

My womb, my stubborn womb;

Cannot hold sons in it.

My first born was a son,

He died when three months old.

I didn't want him dead,

I swear I didn't,

So I went on trying,

Each year for the past ten years,

But this womb of mine,

This stubborn womb,

Stubbornly refuses to hold,

Sons in it.

I'm cursed, who knows maybe,

But I've tried, God only knows that,

But I'm incapable,

I'm lowly and a sinner,

For my womb,

My stubborn womb,

Refuses to hold,

Sons in it.