To do in fact is not the only way
To do a thing; sometimes there is another.
Some dreams may be equivalent to deeds.
The miscarried child of a grieving mother
Had life in her, her dreams of future joys.
The dreams were dreamed, the feeling, love, was shared.
The child knew the joy which life can bring
Because he knew how much his mother cared.
Her heart, a constant rhythm to remind
Her unborn child of all she gave to him.
With energy which kept them both alive,
A Grand Designer formed his fragile limbs.
And then for reasons none could comprehend,
The life was over and the child lost.
The mother, grieving, doesn't understand.
The grave in winter covered by the frost
Will meet her often as she comes to weep.
But could it be that He who formed her son
Could simply wait no more for them to meet?