To the clinic the girl was driven--
Now she waits alone in that dreary lobby,
Bitterly wallowing in her heart's anxiety.
'Tis not her wish that brought her here,
But who ever wanted to undergo surgery?
Now the receptionist with the stone face
Calls to the girl, her time has come.
So she walks with slow and heavy steps,
As if towards her doom she approaches,
And is usehered to that cold metal table,
Where white clad men operate like surgeons,
Doctors who had abandoned their oaths.
Death's hands begin to poke and prod her,
Whilst his cold machinery continues to whir.
The uncaring silence is ominously shattered,
By a brief cry of intense pain sharply felt,
Yet in a voice of silence does death speak.
Sorrow the pitiably girl now knows by name,
To her no comfort will her lover provide,
Nor can her child she nurture and hold,
For that choice was never hers to make.