The gleam in the eye of the mother.
She carried her baby under her heart,
now she holds it in her arms and I see:
this is the most beautiful baby ever.
There is no argument possible.
The baby will grow up, become a person.
But whatever it will become,
it will always remain its mothers child.
Even the mothers of murderers
confess to this: this is still my child.
My baby. And I remember him
from before all this happened.
And the child will love his mother.
Always. Critically maybe, at times,
but unconditionally. And it longs for
that proud gleam in the eye of the mother.
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