Labour it is! The propulsion of a
Contingent of those bullet-like midgets
Imbued with the sole aim of perforating
Those docile oocytes to explode into
One such piece of art in the
Most remarkable fusion-fission reaction
In the entire history of the cosmos,
Scaling through a certain uncertainty -
A haemorrhage or a viability, and
Advancing to evolve in histology and
Morpholgy through a holy machinery
Of reclaiming the human world.
Labour are the unfavourable gravid
Physiological adjustments - the nausea,
Emesis, tumescences; the Brax-Hicks,
True kicks, dilatations and effacements.
Labor it is; the tenacious persistence of
Not vacating the warmth and darkness,
Actuating a forceful eviction of the
Fledgling fleecy resident of the uterus
To infest the open coordinates of
His precursors; with an audacious
Proclamation: "I'm on top of the world!"
Labor it is; the resignation and sacrifice
Of all welfare for the tender tendrils -
Sequelae of an instinctive
Emotional immunodeficiency with a
Never-ending deluge of compassion
Flooding out of the countless facets of
The parents' beings, eternally barred
From all individual participations!
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