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The Mother
She takes the seeds from her womb,
scatters them to the wind and sings to them, the Mother.
And the wind lifts them high
above fields, above fears, takes them round and round then lets them fall. And flowers and trees and children grow from the earth. And the sun shines upon them and makes them blossom. And time watches, counts, and waits for them Around the corner the panhandler stands with his hand stretched out: "Spare any change, Mister?" There's Vietnam in his head, and the blades of the helicopter keep roaring in his ears. And the children duck at unexpected times as if they could hear them too. But it's another war they hear, the one that follows the one that's ahead. And they know, the children, they know that it will take them and bleed them and drop them from the sky. And the Mother will scoop them up and return them to her womb and refuse to give birth again.
#Unreal #Poem #MotherEarth #Birth #Seeds
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