The body, weary of creating life,
becomes the guardian of all lives.
Her hands, maps of wrinkles,
weave stories and mend destinies.
Her womb, now still,
becomes the cradle of the world.
In the absence of the moon,
a different sun shines—
one that warms without burning,
that nourishes without asking.
Perhaps evolution, in its silence,
knew that humanity
needed those who
no longer bear children,
but save the future.
For every grandmother who has been a beacon, a refuge, a root
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