She nurtured me with her body,
a way no one else was designed for.
She carried me, caressed me
when I did not ask her to.
When I was incapable to fend for myself.
She created a life with her touch
and gave me light.
She steps on glass and goes through thorn bushes.
I can see her flesh fade away
like beauty on a tired face.
I cry and plead
for her to come back
to the luxuriant rye
that she laid me on. With this life that she has steamed for me
I can not help but feel guilty.
Guilty for wanting to take it away.
What she does not know
is that I too, pick out thorns from my skin
on the grass that she laid me on.
But I can never have it in my heart
to blame her.