You sit within me,
unborn children of my body,
unwritten words of my heart,
in the very depths of my self.

You roost there, waiting for life.

Like pearls turned to stone,
like promises turned to lies,
like dreams turned to rubble,
you are transformed by your waiting.

Your patience turns, and turns on me.

You should have lived.
You should have been written,
read, fussed over and loved,
caressed by hand and eye.

I have failed you, haven’t I?

My unborn children,
waiting month after month
to see the light of life
and feel the warmth of the sun…

languishing lifeless in dark and dank.

Inanimate in our eye,
you plot your revenge,
unleashing guilt, grief,
anger and bitterness, quietly.

Eating into my inner self.

Understand, my heart
that I have tried.
To conceive, carry, birth and raise
your dreams as mine.

And we are one.

I am not apart from my heart,
my children or my words. Understand.
My work is to try
and that I have.

And yours, now, must be to forgive.

It is not your fate to be alive
but still that remains mine.
Grace and clemency are yours
to give, as I must live.

Share with me, my fate, as I do yours.

Remove from my heart
the blocks to love.
Empty from my spleen
the cutting shards of resentment.

Release me from anger into strength.

Touch with your forgiveness
the bitterness that brews.
And I hate having failed you
but free me from guilt.

Free me to create what I can.

And I will create you
in every task, every dream
every moment, almost
as if I gave you life.

My unborn children.

Do not fester as hurt.
Do not fight as fear.
Do not wound as frustration.
Be what I seek to learn.

Acceptance. Love. Forgiveness.

Do not avenge yourselves
on the battlefields of my life.
Rather, show me how to find
new light, new roads, new signposts

when it all comes to nought.

Show me the way.
Be parent, if you cannot be child.
Be teacher, if you cannot be student.
Be guide, if you cannot travel with me.

My unborn children.
My unwritten words.

Swarna
July 1, 2003
Urbana