I never thought to chance this wage. Birth outright never made me mother. The tending to of woolen threads, the stirring of the stew, the mending of the torn, did not ever prove it through. The 9 men naked in black robes, craning down from wooden planks, they'll make me hark and press my point, and prying a mother's heart... will force a thorough thickened tear, to wrench away all doubt. Never did I profess to say I could do it on my own. But I am here, and here remain, for a mother is but one.