Upon the edges of The Mother’s temple, splashing her soul that's filled with goodness, snuggling with her unblemished love, rotating like honey-joy spun to form laughter, comes a silent prayer; a wish mad-thrown to Heaven. With all of the hard years fogging the windows, mothers look past the broken dish, the noise, her child’s flaws are made of angel dust that she'll breathe away. Prayers aren’t answered, they’re performed, said Mother. Happy Birthday, Mama...
(The Weaver's Song)