From deep within where glands reside, In lobules small, where secrets hide, Yet soon enough, they bloom to yield, And flow through channels gently sealed.
First, these lobules, soft and round, Nest clusters close, where life is found. Indeed, within their clustered home, Milk begins, prepared to roam.
Then, through ducts so sleek and fine, They carry milk, a mother's sign. Moreover, these paths like rivers flow, Toward the nipple, soft and slow.
Next, lactiferous sinuses wait, Where milk collects at nature’s gate. Soon, with each pulse, it finds release, And meets the infant’s lips in peace.
But if by chance an issue grows, A blockage forms, the milk slows. Thus, mastitis might ensue, With swelling pain, the ducts construe.
And yet, beyond this mother’s gift, The ducts hold secrets, subtle, swift. For sometimes cells, though small, can turn, Toward paths that fester, spread, and burn.
Lastly, cancer may arise, Confined within, it hides, it lies. So doctors watch with careful eye, Through ducts, where threats may live or die.
Thus, this system, vital, wise, Supports the infant’s earliest cries. Through ducts and sinuses it moves, A path of life, a breast that soothes.
