We, The Unborn Sons Of Abel
"You shall not murder …" (Exodus 20:13)
"And the Lord said to Cain, 'Where is Abel, your brother?'  And he answered, 'I do not know; am I my brother’s keeper?'  Then He said to Cain, 'What have you done?  The voices of your brother’s bloods are crying out to me from the ground.'' (Genesis 4:9-10)


We, the unborn sons of Abel,
Mourn
The sun, whose warmth we will never feel,
The sea, into whose waves we will never wade,
The shore, with whose sand and shells we will never play.

And rain — what is rain,
That might have fallen on cheeks
We will never have,
And which makes puddles
We will never step into?

Milk — what would milk taste like?
Is it thick or thin?  And its color,
Is it brighter than the dull white fog
In which we float?

We strain to listen —
Is that a bird flying by?
Or is it only the echo of bird-song
Coming to us from far away, from beyond forests,
Beyond mountains and oceans?
Or is that a small dog barking
“Come out to play,
To play;”
Or perhaps it is a cricket at dusk
Reminding us, “Go home to sleep,
To sleep.”
Or is that just the croaking of a frog
That echoes the pounding of hearts
Which will never beat
Inside our chests?

We want to stretch out our hands
(But fingers, we have no fingers!)
To touch the clouds
Which hide the sun from us,
Which hide the blue of sky.
(What is blue?  What is sky?)
And stars, where are the stars
That cannot kindle their flames
In this dull white fog in which we drift?

We, the unborn sons of Abel,
Try to remember;
But memory never comes to us;
Our memories, unborn like us,
Lie buried far away,
Beyond forests of snow,
Beyond mountains with glaciers, and oceans of ice.

Is that the warmth of sun?
Or is that a wind
Which has come to blow within our dreams,
A warm wind which strokes our head
And our cheeks which will never feel the rain?

Or perhaps this is a whisper,
A mother whispering our names.
But what is a name?
And what is a mother?
We strain our hands to touch her eyes
(But fingers, we have no fingers!).
We want to laugh for her,
But we have no voice,
No voice; we have no joy,
No joy.
Where is our mother
Who will never kiss us,
Never embrace us,
Whose smile
We will never see?

The dull white fog in which we float grows gray.
Is this the coming of night?
And in our night, will stars blossom
Like roses we will never smell,
Or like yellow dandelions we will never pick
As a present for our mother, for our father?

We, the unborn sons of Abel,
Mourn
Kittens whose soft fur we will never stroke;
Cool water we will never drink;
Words we will never say;
Songs we will never sing;
Our father’s love we will never know.
But what, what is love?

The gray fog we drift in grows black
And colder than the icicles we will never suck.
Darkness is swallowing us;
Is this our father’s death?
What is death?

We, the unborn sons of Abel,
Mourn
And would cry for our father;
If only we had eyes;
If only we had tears.