Image by Joseph Cosby | A Sleep At Last
It started life like any other baby.
Feeding at its mother’s breast,
Its tiny hands, its trusting eyes,
Touching Mother’s breast.
It was the year the crops failed.
What grain there was,
Was stolen by the ice pirates.
So there was no bread.
The grain gone, the bread gone.
The husband slain by the ice pirates,
The empty breast almost gone,
The mother did what mothers do.
She laid the infant on a pallet,
And stroked its parchment head,
Saying baby, baby, as she
Watched its soul retreat.
Yes, this is a sad little scene.
But remember, the soul is not dead.
It is simply in retreat.
Awaiting a more opportune time.
A year when the crops do not fail.
A country where there are no ice pirates.
Another mother, another breast.
Another quest for happiness.
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