I am that bud which never opened.
A larva that never grew its wings.
I could have been your favorite child,
as I never ever cried.
Sorry it all messed up in the end.
Sorry that at birth, I instead died.
The cord around my neck
That cravat I never tied,
but it coiled like a snake,
which never ate me.
I was blue like a god.
And no pipe, thrust
down my trachea
could turn me red,
as I was already dead.
What remains now is
your empty cradle
and the flowing milk,
like love that flows, that
Ambrosia, that sweet nectar.
Somewhere a baby was born
and a mother died,
leaving the baby hungry,
If your milk helps him thrive,
my conception will not be in vain,
and though stillborn,
I could still ease,
another tiny life's pain.
Akshaya Pawasker's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Stillborn by Akshaya Pawasker )
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