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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Mother

Oh! If she could have it all again she could work harder, she could sleep less, or listen more;

Oh! If she could have it all again she would hold you! She would freeze time at the age when you still cried to be held, because the pain of hurting you is sharper than any blow she would happily take, if only to not see the sorrow in your eyes anymore..

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