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Untitled
A child is born by a mother,
Yet, motherless.
Not because mother died in her birth giving,
But because her being and dignity,
Ceases to matter,
The moment her shame and suffering are tattooed,
With the weight of the new life.
A child is born by a mother,
Yet, motherless.
Not because mother died in her birth giving,
But because when the night has fallen,
She can only grasp the corners of night,
To wrap herself up,
And pretend to be a free maid.
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