Sing woe to the inhospitable womb
To autumn’s hope now felled in winter’s blight
The child in portrait fetching fetched too soon
Once living canvas now stilled life this night
What is this womanly torso but a tomb
Thus raided in surprise and flushed with sorrow
Its secret treasure dulled amidst the gloom
Of hope deferred until another morrow
What posture of self soothing to assume?
What blanket wraps like snow around the grief?
The form that no soft arms could e’er exhume
Now stolen from the future by some thief
And I, cast as the robber and the grave
Both bodies now commit to time to save
