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These things are no secret
song,
Made for us only and not those who belong.
The ways are there paste them on the heart
Anyone, everyone who sees will have a part.
There is Mama, and a Little Mama too.
In three's, so was there old Mother we knew.
Mama, she was your own by birth,
Little Mama was older sister full of mirth.
The Old Mother was the dignity and wisdom
She endowed us for our confidence to come.
We were at will to be obedient to respect,
Her weakness and, her strength, no regret.
The triad of another's faith and belief,
Dominated too the small one's heart's wreath
Three, in no abstract way
But full of vision, black, white, not grey.
Mother's Little sister, Little Mama, my own,
I the eldest, Aunt was Little Mama, to hone,
My earthly ways not to be alone,
Still yet, nothing set in stone.
So the circle went, never broken,
Three, with Love wreathed more than token,
I call only to our Ponca girls,
Knowing, no other wants these pearls.
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