For Her Never To Be Born Son

A precarious early autumn afternoon
not too hot and not too cold
if it were to be water,
it’d be called ‘lauw water’
maybe in our sister language

we sing no odes for children
and never dirges for unborn babies
this wasn’t the druthers of Ms. L
as you are the eponym of her
recent talks
but again, we sing no odes for children
and never dirges for unborn babies

so scale the heights wherever you are
Ms. L is aching now and so are we all
maybe you just came to embody
the brevity of human life
but we sing no odes for children
and never dirges for unborn babies
So keep clambering up wherever
you are

(c) Prince Kenny Jr

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BELGIAN WAFFLES

Each squared pattern has its own story to tell,
its usual symphony to orchestrate,
its unknown gospel to preach,
its shortcomings to revise

Spotted along the taalgrens within
its frontiers,
along its so called seething equator of the Waals
and the Vlaams, and the Oostkantons

With the Brabançonne, the obvious pathfinder
which symbolizes the eternal cradle
on which the nation is birthed

Like the flour that gives rise
to the waffle,
the Belgian waffle
let its appraisal be sung
for its lasting feat knows no limit.