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Gates of the Stillborn Joy in the embrace at birth Was the ensnaring expectation But wee hands turned, grasping mortal portals Glimpsing the jaundiced journey and weeping cried Though love at moments waits in the chimerical childhood Beyond the borders I can see the truth And I will not pass through those doors Without my pernicious protest I will not turn to the suffocating air Where one must not stay a moment longer Than love can bear Is this the song of stillborns? their demure hands clinging to God's breath begging for some other entrancee Some Egress to peace are they wistful at the Love they were called to? those of childhood they might trust Those of youth they might not Those of age which cause suffering And those of death, in which one surrenders? Do they view the Gardens of satin lilies, or peppered wildflowers in random bouquets does their heart turn? Could the diminutive hands grasp the would-be future The first sorrow, or broken heart? The first dayspring Sun pouring through nursery windows? Do they sigh at the first one in whom is the first delight, the grief at the first sorrow, The song which is their calling? Do they turn in a backward glance at the LORD and turn their heads slightly in quizzical glances Do they whimper, or sigh? Wishing to feel the warmth of mother's arms OR the steady gaze of a father's strength or play, or singing, dancing or learning, But just over the shoulder, seeing a little more than the others They see the grasping, hints of slaughter encroaching armies Who overpower mothers with babes in arms The brutal mockings which begin as children The breaking of covenants The rabid rejections with small hot tears on perfect cheeks Do they see off in the distance the besetting diseases, the lameness, blindings, deaf ears straining to hear the last notes of music , their only joy Just past the receiving blankets of snowing white with blue, pink and yellow Do they ache at the first bruise or see the future of the soldier at war crying at the arm which can no longer embrace the infant of days? Does the lilting of a Brahm's music box drift to heaven's border, And lulled and lullabied, they are at one with wanting to cross the boundary Yet wanting to stay where Guardian and Garrison keep them from the first unkind word? I wonder, Stillborn Did your bravery falter from birthed counterparts? Were you counterpoint to the weeping infants wiser, or naive Left with your song, or robbed of it? Was the call of the Dance the sweet arabesque more appealing to return to the Celestial? Is the delicate leaf blooming early on Etz Chaim More sovereign than tempered steel or molten silver of a life forged in this fire? I do not mean to dream or linger Not longer at your graveside Than a lifetime I just have unanswered questions and I do not comprehend your silence or God's At mysteries, or stillborns.