Ballad of the Unborn
My shining feet will never run on early morning lawn;
my feet were crushed before they had a chance to greet the dawn.
My fingers now will never stretch to touch the winning tape;
my race was done before I learned the smallest steps to take.
My growing height will never be recorded on the wall;
my growth was stopped when I was still unseen, and very small.
My lips and tongue will never taste the good fruits of the earth;
for I myself was judged to be a fruit of little worth.
My eyes will never scan the sky for my high-flying kite;
for when still blind, destroyed were they in the black womb of night.
I’ll never stand upon a hill, Spring’s winds in my hair;
aborted winds of thought closed in on Motherhood’s despair.
I’ll never walk the shores of life or know the tides of time;
for I was coming but unloved, and that my only crime.
Nameless am I, a grain of sand, one of the countless dead;
but the deed that made me ashen grey floats on seas of red.
Fay Clayton
My shining feet will never run on early morning lawn;
my feet were crushed before they had a chance to greet the dawn.
My fingers now will never stretch to touch the winning tape;
my race was done before I learned the smallest steps to take.
My growing height will never be recorded on the wall;
my growth was stopped when I was still unseen, and very small.
My lips and tongue will never taste the good fruits of the earth;
for I myself was judged to be a fruit of little worth.
My eyes will never scan the sky for my high-flying kite;
for when still blind, destroyed were they in the black womb of night.
I’ll never stand upon a hill, Spring’s winds in my hair;
aborted winds of thought closed in on Motherhood’s despair.
I’ll never walk the shores of life or know the tides of time;
for I was coming but unloved, and that my only crime.
Nameless am I, a grain of sand, one of the countless dead;
but the deed that made me ashen grey floats on seas of red.
Fay Clayton
Ballad of the Unborn
My shining feet will never run on early morning lawn;
my feet were crushed before they had a chance to greet the dawn.
My fingers now will never stretch to touch the winning tape;
my race was done before I learned the smallest steps to take.
My growing height will never be recorded on the wall;
my growth was stopped when I was still unseen, and very small.
My lips and tongue will never taste the good fruits of the earth;
for I myself was judged to be a fruit of little worth.
My eyes will never scan the sky for my high-flying kite;
for when still blind, destroyed were they in the black womb of night.
I’ll never stand upon a hill, Spring’s winds in my hair;
aborted winds of thought closed in on Motherhood’s despair.
I’ll never walk the shores of life or know the tides of time;
for I was coming but unloved, and that my only crime.
Nameless am I, a grain of sand, one of the countless dead;
but the deed that made me ashen grey floats on seas of red.
Fay Clayton
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