Wherein the haven, my own stillborn child?
The cradle couldn't illumine gilt enough
or crafted pure, as love and kin is styled
even if cushioned - in abodes of fluff.

To wonder, eases tears regarding why
and tunes the silence of idle bluebirds,
as Springs' rebirthing season traversed by
which lingers only clouds of greyish girds.

As I remain within the sombre sky
and plead of brighter days - to this unborn,
it dawns as timely - everyone shall die
and light shall perish all the darkened mourn.

Wherever wings the baby souled divine
assure to find - O' little one, and mine.