| I was born with my hand in a fist
|
| And my eyes shut tight
|
| Any wonder that I cannot resist
|
| Punching blindly, in a fight
|
| First time I saw swans flying to the sun
|
| I wanted to be one
|
| Like every mother’s son
|
| When I saw my life had begun
|
| I wanted to be someone
|
| Like my brother
|
| My one and only father
|
| And like every mother’s son
|
| I was raised within a cause
|
| With a purpose to fulfill
|
| I was taught to defend what was mine
|
| And instructed not to kill
|
| My small mortal eyes can see eternity
|
| In the clouds that dissolve and then regroup endlessly
|
| Like every mother’s son
|
| When a man showed me how to use a gun
|
| I wished I’d never needed one
|
| Like my brother
|
| My one and only father
|
| And like every mother’s son
|
| Everything in domesticity
|
| Assumes its role better than me
|
| I’m a displaced person whose culture let me down
|
| I raise my own daughters in a pornographic town
|
| Like every mother’s son
|
| I’ve lost some and some I’ve won
|
| Now I’m waiting for a new dawn
|
| Like my brother
|
| My one and only father
|
| And like every mother’s son
|
| Help |