The cooked flesh is raw, tears stream over blood, not yet burnt. The mother does not care if the razor-sharp knife freezes in a heartbeat and when slowness of yesterday or the day before becomes all the same. She does not shudder when hard rain splits unstable earth and loosens up your granite stones buried deep inside. You do not care if she forgives you when your mouth opens and closes. You do not weep when birthday ribbons in your eyelids turn emerald green to prevent spying eyes from seeing you. There is nothing but this: wherever you go, you finger your pearls leaving tiny holes in your delicate skin.