The sleeping child

I carry a grandchild up the stairs
On a darkened day,
A light so golden are her hairs
And my shoulders know the burden
Of all mothers and their heirs.

There is no difference between
The ones we are and those on-screen.
We love them all. The ones that live
And those unseen to us are there.
When we are gone, the ones we carried, live.

Life is a staircase, up we go
And all we carry as a burden,
As a love, a weight: they are a flow
That gets less heavier
Along the climb. As far we know.

Comments on: "The sleeping child" (4)

  1. Life is indeed a staircase, well said. Step by step we climb into our age.

  2. Breathtakingly beautiful, {{{Ina}}}. XO ❤

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