Sunday, January 30, 2011


I'll never know the sweet caress
With which a mother's hand can bless;
Nor ever feel her tender kiss
Imparting safe, warm, precious bliss.

I'll know too well the terror cold
Of martyr facing lions bold;
Their pow'r unchecked will waste my life
With poison and the surgeon's knife.

My silent throes will thus adorn
My helpless frame in death forlorn.
They say I'm not a living child
But more like creatures in the wild.

I'm “not a child”—and not because
My hands resemble creatures' paws—
It's only that their length is shown
In millimeters ere I'm “grown.”

Is it because I cannot cry
In strains you hear, that I must die?
Is it for this my life is sold
For ease, convenience, coins, and gold?

I'm weak and helpless, silence-bound,
And when I'm killed I make no sound.
It's only you for me can say—
Let's end abortion in our day.

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