Alone and scared in darkness,
She wildly looks about,
Dire menace creeping ever nearby,
Having neither claw nor snout.
Some souls move empty through the world,
Already damned and lost,
Unmoved by breath or pleading cries,
Rimmed by dark and hoary frost.
The morning finds her stiff with cold.
Her stockings, ripped and torn,
The futile struggle for her last breath,
Lies plain by light of dawn.
The meadow holds her final breath,
Lark song no longer fills the sky,
For silence hangs in cold, cold air,
Where innocence did die.
Yet somewhere, in the waking town,
A mother’s heart is torn,
Somehow feeling love lies still,
And will not see the morn.
No prayer can warm the lifeless clay,
No hand can cleanse the stain,
The world turns on, indifferent still,
While blood cries out in vain.
Not one murder, but was two,
Two lives were ripped apart:
Quieted within her silent womb,
Lies an innocent small heart.
