Thus I pen by the light of the fires-
That burn and the clothes halve
I wove of yarn- soft against my hands,
For the child we did never have.
And thus, within me surges ocean dark,
And thus, within me builds music of long-
Oh, how does the fountain feeble of fate
Alas! For prayers I did like confessions
Whisper alike to gods in dark and light,
For dreams I did of merry days see;
Joys known and unknown to my sight:
How can worlds in their shattering-
How can skies breaking- go unheard?
Can so soft, so silent-echo pain ever-
In the strange airs of miracles skyward?
Mother Divine! How can Thee see not-
My bosom: that not milk but tears wet,
My fingers: that not flesh but void holds,
Like poetry whole that is in emptiness set?
Can barrenness veiled by sorrow deep,
Around which gather you, to hear crave,
Soothe the ears-I shall know never;
Nor the child we did never have.