Contemplating life; driving subconsciously,
returning from the work, weary and blue,
a suckling getting ricocheted like a baby toad made me slow down my ride.
I took him in my arms, and looked into his eyes,
O the longing to reunite with one’s mother,
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And how we don’t die to meet the dead!
Hearing the bleat, a woman rose amidst a verdure weed.
cap-a-pie sweat sodden,
Making the gauze see through.
Yet, no organ seemed sensual;
she hardly had breast.
The malnourished baby in her arms,
looked far well and well fed.
A moment ago, looking for her:
I wanted to complain,
for how a mother can be so unbothered about her child!
But her physique, her absorption in labor
I faith, for to keep the baby healthy
she can even butcher her own meat.
