Is there anything else more dignified, more divinely, more fascinating, more subtle, more frustrating than the rest of a baby in the breast of a mother, in his first contact with the world, in the supreme blessing of all the miracles that have come down to you want heaven on earth.
It has not touched the more magical light of a woman’s chest than the wet petals of the baby’s hands. No, other lips have not shaken life and serenity than the lips of the fire and the divine insistence of the child to drink with the life-giving tamper, the sunlight itself that keeps it in his lap, puts it under the care feathers and covers it with delight and kiss.
You woman, who has reached the mother’s star, reveals all the heaven with your hands, all the desires in the blessings that dwell upon your voice and your gaze, possess. The world is in your hands, the world is your hand, eternity is the will of your ever-present prayer.
You mother, you woman, you angel, you blessed St. Mary!