‘No human body I can touch, hold, or hug.
Spring is lost, and leaves have fallen.
My tree of life is bare and gray.
I’m old – worth a century of stories.
To mankind, I’m a “bag” – pieces of flesh tied together,
warm blood still flowing.
Lying in my bed, I ask for touch and embrace.
You give me a plastic doll, “Here… it’s your baby.”
You treat me as such, and I’m a century old.’
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