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.

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