from the wombs of their mothers, they were born...
but often…they bore no tie but blood.
no tie to the life-giving beings
that naturally yield rich
and proud cultural celebrations.
their cords--cut from the wombs
that belonged to embodied hope
and aspirations.
from the crafters of
enduring radiance that is
ever flowing inspiration.
these mothers...
the ones who were seized
among the "spoils of war"
by those named victorious…
these mothers...
seized by patriotic mongrels
who thought it only fair
because they were “rightfully theirs”...
these mothers…
by only their grace,
often deeply loved
the blossoms of their wombs
all the same.
About the Creator
ren s.
fanfic writer interested in topics of social engagement, class, gender, and social violence.
A Dart at Dusk
Seconds ago, the sullen sun set on the two of us… my exuberant furry companion and me. A fresh breeze embraces us, delivering welcome relief from the day’s oppressive heat. His typical stumbling and staggering along — apace with a sloth — has turned into trip-trapping, high-stepping, almost skipping along.
By Angie the Archivist 📚🪶7 days ago in Petlife
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