Labyrinths

It is the mothers
the virgins
the whores
the seeresses
all the healers
They stand and look, beaten dumb
they cry and hunch
by the pain
The place lost
hardly the labyrinths turn

A rustling in the wood
Light beams sparkle in the wet leaves
On the muddy ground a flower
And then: singing emerges
Women that take themselves by the hands
Exchange glances and dry tears
A new cycle begins