the never born

I cannot find
the words that tell
of those who die
and go to Hell,
Because the child
before his birth
by healer's knife
was lacking worth.
Of children gone
by hew and rend;
disrupted life,
an essence' end.
Of mother's heart
in deep lament,
unspoken love
from her was rent.
Of grief and anguish
torment through
the years that span
eternal bruise.
Though wind and rain
through many years
no stone have bleached
or washed the tears,
No words indent
grave marker worn,
the child we knew
was never born.
© 2009 george edwin smith
george.e.smith@gmail.com