Tamra Maew

Tamra Maew

A frisky intelligence perches herself regally on the edge of the dirty beige sofa
and she begins to muse at length about ancient sacred knowledge.
My little Wichien-maat, so wise so fragile,
life has yet to show you the end of the string you chase in your youth.

Tilting your head and crinkling your nose,
an impatience for those less adventurous than you,
an agitation with those who linger too long in the blush of childhood
not ambitious enough to charge ahead after shiny baubles.

The sleekness of your hair betrays the unfringed anger,
bottled and brazen, uncertain of whether to bare your claws or slink away.
My little Wichien-maat, so young so persistent,
life will lead you to many different trials some barren some plush.

Let your bonds guide you.
Let your curiosity lead you.