Born purple, gulping at the air,
Tiny body lying there,
Crying out, reaching for mother's milk,
That mammalian design.
And mother's fallen with a fever,
Heart racing desperately,
Her belly bloats with sickness,
Her limbs becoming cold.
Dread sets into her face,
Terror in her eyes,
Looking beyond,
Seeing shivering burning dying worlds.
Beginning - middle - end.
And I wonder: As great sickness descends,
Is there nothing we can do?
Is there story old as mountains?
Some time before time,
Crept into form.