Against the Practice of Abortion

In the depth of your womb,
Half-dazed and half-frightened,
I cried out with my voice.
In that moment filled with panic, my voice failed,
And in vain, I cried for help.

I am your child;
Child of your love.
Mama, I present to you
My little hands of fetal innocence,
In the hope that they would turn into flowers
In your palm.

But I am frightened by the look in your eyes.
You are tying me up with the umbilical cord of my misfortune.
Why are you laying me down on this cold surface?
You are raising your hand high in the sky.
Why are you raising your hand against me?
Mama, I would like to be born in the spring
Under a deep blue Mediterranean sky,
And the air saturated with fragrance of jasmine.
Where is God of father Abraham?
Should I look for the lamb of the faithful?
It must be somewhere nearby,
Caught in the thickets by its horns.
Mama, what is happening?
Your manicured fingers of feminine elegance
Have turned into a hired killer’s knives.

Be pleased, O Lord, to have mercy on me.

You strike me once, you strike me twice and
You have destroyed, you have
Destroyed my fragile unborn geometry.
Now I can feel my blood rushing out
Out to be in the orange garden.

And it is finished!

I am love demolished.
I am love butchered.
O Woman,
Wounded,
Wounded by my brief existence.
I was your child once,
Child of your negligent love.

You butchered me,
On the altar of feminine freedom.
You butchered me to feed the serpent,
The serpent that lives on
The mangled bodies of discarded babies.