The mother toils.

Tormented by cries and pleas.

Directed by a dictator outside of her will.

The mother floats.

From task to task without rest in between

The mother yearns? No, there’s no time for yearning.

There is no herself to yearn for she is no longer an individual soul.

She has melted with the universal first cry of life and all she is, is a means to survive.

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