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You that no skill could stir, I feel you stirringA restless ghost within my haunted side;Your light feet thrust, your frail hands beat against meAsking the life eternally denied.

You that I could not find, I wake to find youShadowy head asleep upon my breast;Hungry I lean, but even as I hold youYour image fades and I am dispossessed.

O child who did not cry, you cry foreverThrough all my nights, and impotently IRock anguished arms, and try in vain to hush youWith stricken lullaby.

© Gilbert Ruth