Poem: Cycle of Life


soft little hands,

curling instinctively,

grasping, searching, hoping,

for mama’s fingers,

or papa’s palm.



old brittle hands,

instinctively closing from the pain,

waiting, lonely, hoping,

for a warm embrace,

forgotten what mama and papa felt like.



born without consent,

die without consent,

the same soft hands,

hardened by life,

once protected,

now abandoned,

the old hands search for the waiting little ones,

together, the cycle of life.

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