I remember the words now, the ones my mother used to sing, half asleep, while she rocked me in her weary arms. And it took too long to drift off, and it felt as if she were dying. I’d place my ear on her chest and listen; she lives.

And she slept for so long, all the dolls were bored of their new dresses. And there were no book with pictures left, no more crayons. Was I hungry? Was I afraid? I’d place my ear on her chest and listen; she lives.

‘Un’te duci tu, mielule? / La pasune, domnule. / Ce sa faci tu, mielule? / Sa pasca iarba, domnule/

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