Again, but in the prison she laid
At where her sin to be paid.
Nothing left but a Hobson's choice,
To which she had no voice.
Her new destination made her to rest,
With her nerves being unrest;
Screaming: "To be an woman is the best,
But to live the womanhood is the worst".
Her eyes starred the battered bowl,
Ears heard her hearts howl,
The rolling tears baptised,
That tiny prey of homicide.
With her thoughts wandering,
In that night hovering,
She stalked an year back
Into those memories; black!
Holding tightly to her breast
Fondling that tiny life to rest,
Digging the mud; making her child's crib
While the breathe still pushed in rhythm - the baby rib.
"Hard to see another me,
For you, no future I foresee!
Sleep well, close your eyes,
This is your mother; I am an woman but wise!
Threw the child in the grave;
For it to die is better and brave.
And all her grieves flew in the childs last breathe,
With she standing alone in the midst of the heath
With her thoughts wandering,
In that night hovering.
She stalked again,
Into those memory's pain.
In the bed she laid
At, where her virginity paid.
Nothing left then, but a Hobson's choice,
To which she had no voice.