I am not a brave one, not a lion nor a lamb;
legs too weak to stand, crawl close.
You are not of man.
Let your mother wean you,
let her lick your forehead clean.
I am a child of the glen,
there is no fear too keen.
Your gentle growl, a humming,
let the throat grow warm and swell;
I will cower sweetly by your side
till all is well.
© 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.