Appeal To A Dying Child Poem by Cheryl L. DaytecYañgot

Do not go there, my child; your train must not arrive
Nature has intended that mine should come ahead
Come back, my child, come back, your thick baggage unpack
You must work on the seams begun with your fine dreams
Do not follow that light; it lures you to the night
The day for you is high - my time is what draws nigh
Nature’s clear calendar shows youth’s gaits are still far
From the terminal line while old age sips its wine

Resist that bright light’s pull; your pages are not full
The gaps implore your hand to write your life upon
Each space as mine is filled, extra pages added
I will not fill up more. Respite waits over shore
The echoes on the wall still answer to your call
Every task must be done before the day is gone
Let me go in your place. Dance gaily through the years
Have children, watch them grow; your wisdom they must know

An untraversed road calls for the weight of footfalls
Unopened doors abound praying they will be found
Hope’s energy is bare! It hankers for your dare
Should you take that low road, grief will compound its load
If your tired flesh needs rest, seek refuge in my crest
Lay your head on my lap, draw strength from a good nap
Then rise up. Tread again the path of the living
Do not usurp my hour. Your wine is not yet sour

To nature it’s slander for youth to persevere
Against age in a race to get first to the grave
Youth belongs to the day where doors lead to the way
To worlds yet unexplored, to quests yet unresolved
It is not time to leave the comfort of your crib
Stay away from the grave. Resist it! Please be brave
Here and now, we both are; between us, time so far
You’re in early March’s light; I’m in November’s night

But could it be that we are in proximity?
I smell my aging bone; I hear your dying moan
But why should a mother bury the cadaver
Of her child, her womb’s fruit? What scourge could be as brute?
I will not dig your grave! It’s mine you’ll carve like cave
It’s you who must mourn deep! At my death, you will weep
If one of us must go, that one cannot be you
Parents should not remorse over a dear child’s corpse.

(for Aunty Glee; September 2001)