by 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 while still blind, destroyed were they
in the black womb of night

I'll never stand upon a hill,
Springs' winds in my hair
Aborted, winds of thought closed in
on motherhoods' 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

Nonetheless am I, a grain of sand,
one of the countless dead.
But the deed that made me ashen grey,
floats on seas of red.


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