Though all babies are welcomed
As cherubs and innocent things
All are born of circumstance
Starving soldiers or spoiled kings.
Some children sip from silver spoons
And others taste spoons of lead.
Some mothers pinch round, chubby cheeks
Others cannot keep them fed.
I know my child’s only fault
Is that he was born to me.
Destined never to witness Rome,
Due to my own poverty.
I tell my son what mothers do,
That he can do all he dreams,
But late at night, I bury tears
For someone told that to me.
I look into his eyes like mine,
And wish I’d set my lover free
So he had found a finer half
And loved someone more than me.
I too was born from circumstance,
I too was careful to dream
But still I dream for my son,
Most of all, that he is more than me.