Fetus clinging to mother´s womb for life,
The babe, to breast for sustenance offered,
The maid, to sweet dreams of what´s to come,
The bride, to the man who gives her true love,
The mother, to the child she deems to protect,
Everyone clinging, all clinging like vines to
life,
All but the Crone, who has clung for too long,
Her tendrils loosening in their joyous freedom,
Un-clinging at long last, to find the soul she
is.
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