little child, who is asleep,
whose innocence
is the milky way on his lips:
to whom do you call Mother?
little child, the moon’s crescent
lays like a birthmark on your cheek,
and your single strand of hair
the trail of a meteor’s heat:
why are you crying?
little child, do not cry – go to sleep.
a blue-green pearl sits
where your heart is – and beats:
they will find your Mother.