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Woman with a Parrot, by Gustave Courbet
Robert L. Martin

Mere de Vie

Mother of life, I live from you,
Your eternal throbbing, your tears,
Your milk, your blood, your gardens,
Your central strongholds, your arsenals,
The hub in the middle of life,
Your heart of flesh and steel,
Of weeping giants,
With vessels of bread and water,
The blood forever surging ahead,
You, in the middle of man and woman,
The ruler of love and death,
Throbbing, racing with the sun,
The fragile, the firm, the reliable,
Throwing out your fertile arms,
Forever sowing and harvesting,
Running through thorns and thickets,
Along bright familiar avenues,
Away from and back home again,
A journey of goodwill and concern,
Mother of compassion and mercy,
Of giving, giving, giving, giving,
Heart of life and joy and sorrow,
Of pain and convalescence,
Of wisdom, courage, and silence,
Of maternal instincts
And reciprocal deeds,
Churning with the winds of time,
Mother of Life, Mere de Vie,
Always on the move until the very end.

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