Oh, no! How could God let the bud of my breasts go dry
when He Himself so swelled my girth?
I feel my breasts growing,
rising like water in a wide pool, noiselessly.
And their great sponginess casts a shadow
like a promise across my belly .
Who in all the valley could be poorer than I
if my breasts never grew moist.
Like those jars that women put out to catch the dew of night,
I place my breasts before God.
I give Him a new name,
I call Him the Filler,
and I beg of Him the abundant liquid of life.
Thirstily looking for it, will come
my son.
— Gabriela Mistral