That Is What They Think

Adorned with beauty

Of nature, youth and wealth

She walks through the night

In a manner of stealth.



Glowing cheeks, glowing

Eyes of silver and gold

Like a fugitive

Neither shy, neither bold.



Like tender petals

Her fingers holding on

Close to her bosom

The little one; new born.



Walking, trotting on

A determined face, stern

With fury, perhaps

That she cannot discern.



Beside the river

She stands, thinking aloud,

"Should I, should I not?"

A whisper; not too loud.



If the world forgave

As the Lord does, there would

Be less to forget

Less to fear, less to brood.



In tears, she bends forth

Leaving the sign of sin

On the river bank

Her sleeping, dreaming son.



To wealth, to beauty

She runs, taking shelter

Covering, quickly

The hurt and the swelter.



Thus will be buried

A deed of shame, for shame

To save what exists

The nascent will take blame.



The world will see her

When the sunshine comes on

And noone will know

There was a boy, new born.



A beautiful life

Of which joys she can drink

She looks so happy

But that is what they think.