Scorned for her malformed posture,
her potato-like features,
As fielding the paddy,
her scrubbed, shrub-roughened, bread winners;
bear pain and crack.
And still she smiles
as she endures, alongside
the dusk and dawn of the moon.
Eight mourning soul-splits,
feast everyday on the love
that her blood and sweat affords.
Did you know there's more strength
in that fate-twisted backbone
than a ten thousand strong mandarin army?
In these death-darkened times, still she shines.
A bright star in sixteen hungry eyes,
An angel in dowdy robes.
Mother will provide.