A womb is like a chrysalis hung
For the spirit to liquefy itself inside
Moving backwards out of a cloud
From which the first drops descend
What could be more intimate
Than rain becoming leaves
Curled around a rosy bud
Until the rain becomes a flood
Carrying trees along sweeping up
Debris and the last memory
Of heaven still craving to be
Born again until all that's left
Is the tiny puddle of a being
Reflected in a mother's face
Light candles for its safe arrival
Comb the stars for its rightful names
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