What Becomes Of This?
What Becomes Of This?
Where do children play?
On sidewalks too grey,
Or pastures green and gay?
Have eyes come upon death chanting her early call
On pink flesh still warmed by blood
Not yet breathed first breath of air clean and clear
Or shed a tear?
Where do children lie?
In cotton sheets
Blue or pink?
It matters not, since he can’t see it anyway.
Lost souls weep and she sleeps
Grim thoughts afar
Dare not fare the other way
Lest she be alone in this current
Too strong to bare
Gently he takes her hand
Sweetly calls her name
Tremble she will not
Strength shall not ebb
Though her countenance fails
Her figure resistless and torpid
His mind made
Press on, press on
Let the sparrow sing!
For life not loved is no life at all
Thus, a child twas not
And soul not entered
This secret place
Unknown to man
On winters night
Numbing air swept their cheeks
She felt not
Her heavy heart swayed
From plans first made
Persisted he endured his weeping woman
Though she agreed not to plead
For his heart to love and raise
A child that God gave.





