A Mother's hands

A mother's hands are rough
from the raw material
she is offered to shape up.
There are scales of jagged skin
falling off a cliff like years.
Sacrifice that I never understood
is always present with its quietude.
Her womb extends far
embodying the continents
her children are spread.
She sees no difference
between the grownups now
and the children then.
She who tried to understand
the babble with dripping saliva.
Now listens intently over phone
what you have to tell her
about this big, big world.