You took the sweet-lipped child
as she slept in innocence.
As she danced, with the daisies in her hair,
at a picnic party.
The sour-mouthed woman
rises from the broken fragments.
And now you wonder.
And now you back away in horror.
The woman stands alone among you.
The anger curdles deep within her.
The weeds that curl around her fingers.
There she buried the young child.
There, she sacrificed the young child.
The grave, forever burnt into her eyes,
Shows where the young child died.