The Eva D. Horton Times

What Becomes Of This?

Eva d. horton — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 12:53:38 GMT

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.