I am that single mother,
deserted by her children
who have colluded with malignant
stepchildren to murder me,
I am that mother wriggling
in disaster, whose arms
have been cut off, legs amputated
by those who I call my own,
I am that pitiful mother
who never relished the bliss
of motherhood—I drink from
an ocean of lamentations,
I am a being of groans and gutters,
injuries and scars adorn my body.
I have given you my soil and its bounty,
I have given you my soul and its blessings,
I neither ask for gold nor garbs,
how ungrateful can one’s children be?
But my grandchildren seem
like stars who have found a home,
or maybe I am dreaming—hope is
the pillar on which all ages stand,
I am pregnant again
with the glory of years to come,
a new dream, a new history—this is
the hope on which I stand.
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