This child of discontent grows in my belly, Coldly curled beneath my silent breath, A bodily excrescence which I cannot Bring to term - its terms cannot be met. No flesh but fear, no matter but this shadow Beneath my hand, that kicks my heart from rest.

This little birth within me grows more heavy Carrying the seed of other death; And I am filled by it, this moon-born folly - Waters break and coalesce again. No signposts to this sea, I am no longer Sure which is borne, which bearing, in this breast.

The heart confined - this heart - becoming ready, With the child contending, strength and strength. The work of moments, still the longest labour, Faith cannot be given, only lent. I cannot bear this, nor will it be born now - I am diminished, and I pass the test.
 
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