What hands are these
That rocked the cradles.
Held fevered children
To her breast?
Worked in fields by day;
Never knew a moment's rest.
Set a thousand meals
Upon her table.
Frowned with a mother's worry
Over an inconsolable son.
While another went off to wars
That could not be won.
Her work was never done.
What narrative is this that
Wears weary marks of age
Etched upon one beautiful face?
(c) Gwen Beauregard - (01.02.11)
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