From Womb To Tomb

World, burning in the fire of selfishness,

Turns a cold-shoulder towards the scream of the unborn.

The girl is going to be born,

But her father prepares her grave.

Silvery voice of a doll,

Will soon be burned into silence.

Those delicate hands in the womb

Unfolds into prayer.

She is a flower and not a thorn,

She is pretty as a pearl.

She will be the one you will be proud,

But never a blunder as you say.

She wants to live but

They show her the knife.

Let her stay in her mother’s womb.

Don’t make it her tomb.

Their hands don’t tremble.

So ruthless they are.

What makes them so determined?

Why they persist to hold on to a boy

And bury a girl six feet deep?

Why she has to die

In spite of doing nothing wrong?

But…

The time is here.

Her heart thudded,

Trying to escape her chest,

As she held her breath.

She pleads to hear to her cries,

To listen to her scream.

To listen to her dreams.

She is born as a sinner.

She is a burden that they can’t keep long.

It is a bitter pain.

Her time is brief.

The muffled cries of the baby

Are put an end to.

Broken like a uprooted flower,

She lies in the hands of her devil father,

Who killed her dreams,

Who crushed her good spirits.

She was a seed but was tore up

Like a weed.

Her journey was confined

From womb to tomb.