With a seed, she chose to sow
came all her dreams undertow.
A nine month term would enshroud
all the time God would allow.

In that moment of the morn
chasten to the falling gloom
for the seed, she chose to grow
sleeps in whispers in her womb.

In the kitchen singing softly
for this child she so adorned,
came the voice of shallow talking,
like a tiger slowly stalking.
In my words, she felt the sting
for her voice ceased to sing.

He called the child in that hour.
I curse the spirits gathered round her
lurking in this milky gloom.
As your tears do truly shower
for the sorrows of your womb.

In the light of early mourn
beyond the gates of all stone gardens,
is a child that’s softly crying
to a mother who feels she's dying.

How to fight this milky sorrow
that lies in stillness of the morrow,
captured in the morning gloom.
I can not fill her empty womb 
with the spirits in this room.

In the kitchen of early morn
I hear you singing in my heart
to the souls of children walking,
in little footsteps slowly stalking.

Far beyond this milky gloom
hand in hand they gather round you,
to sing in whispers,
to sing in whispers to your womb.
Take from God the time he's given,
Life must live and keep on living.

These red roses are all I offer,
to his memory I am enslaved.
In the early morn of first light
I lay them gently on his grave.