The young woman came and sat beside me,
Tired, care worn,
Worry sketched across her face
From the burden she lovingly bore.
The bundle small,
Unknowing of the love surrounding it,
Nor the danger it was in.
The child three days old,
Seeming perfect in its repose,
Content and safe in its motherís arms.
Grandmother, Mother, and daughter,
A trinity of feminine hope and love,
Poured out knowing the horror that may come.
An endless void of grief and sorrow,
If the circle shattered,
By death cruel and merciless in its hunger,
Devoid of compassion or hope.
For a time, shattering faith,
That is what mothers do,
Willing to pay any price,
Dues paid in a world such as ours.
Though it depths profound,
A glimpse of the infinite
In a painfully finite world,
Where life often makes no sense,
With only one ending secure.