They Were My Children

From dream to execution — a mother weaving a garment of blood for her lost children.
Death resides in the grasp of a greater, demonic force, holding even the mother herself.
Yet nothing can restrain her mourning.

That morning began strangely. I woke up at 7:30 a.m., as if I had no choice but to wake.
I immediately got up, took my sketchbook, and started drawing. I remember how heavy my eyes felt — it was difficult to even look at the blank page.
I know I saw this image in a dream. I remember waking up from the excitement of it, holding onto it, completing it, and capturing it on paper before falling back asleep.
But I still don’t know where it came from, or how it found its way into my mind.