1976

Your soft whimpers fight Intrusive hygienic hands—  Your blind eyes cannot see the terror  Of losing your angelic face—  The white skin of your miniature stature  Riped as purple prunes—  Collapsing rib cage but yet soft as pillows— The agonizing lifting lip contorts with each pull—  Your eyes cannot hear the cutting of flesh—  And long sterile needles pierce your soft baby skin— The pain wrestles itself and gives out—  Your last days are marked with fixed eyes—  Young parents hold in tight grips And pay farewell to their newborn son.