The Lost Womb
A seething projection of female infanticide, a rampant truth still prevalent in our country, as a mother mourns her lost womb.
She sat there with a lost gaze,
Like the silence of the woods
Rustled by the rapture of leaves.
Whispering in the willows:
The cold hard concrete steps,
No warmth of the sunlit forest floor,
That murmured in the shining sun,
After the chill of the morning dew.
The cold steps.
Hurt, pain, death,
Oozing off the chill of a winter grave,
Broken by the howling of the North Wind.
Baring their white fangs,
Grumbling through the elms and birches:
Still, I could see her.
Little feet pattering on the white steps,
Rosy hands clasping the iron gates,
Twinkling eyes, yet lost.
Trying hard to open the gates,
Banging on them till the little hands bled.
Yearning to run through the garden,
Through the wooden door,
Plunging into my outstretched arms.
The chill was more than those cold steps,
Where she sat with a lost gaze.
As the hard scalpel ripped her out.
That tiny heart cut cold,
Those small feet pulled dead with a suction saw,
The eyes went shut.
With a smile of relief, they killed you.
Happy you were unborn,
Those white coats chuckling in the OT:
Yet, I could see you.
My man laughed too,
Took pride for the kill,
It was a five star super hospital,
He had paid for it.
His eyes gleamed of passion again,
We would again mate,
Till I wed another man.
Love, sweat, heat,
Tingling teasing fun.
I would again try to mould in bed
In a deep embrace.
But still she sat there
With her lost gaze.
Mumbling, calling through those iron gates.
The stairs wobbling
Like the forest path.
Unknown, unheard, unstepped.
She ran down it,
Her little feet up in a storm,
As I ran fast,
My big feet outracing her,
The dancing gleam flickered around.
The towering oaks
“Now, she’s dead.”
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