The Wait Without Response
Pale and clamorous, outside the emergency ward an old woman stands like a gravestone quietly waiting
A smile that is not a smile — through splattered blood and wailing, a trace of hope still shows A cry that is not a cry — sirens threading past cannot carry off the somber grief Slowly she lowers a trembling hand clutching tight the doll, long fallen into tatters
A pair of vacant eyes, gaze fixed on the distance, left to wind and rain only quietly waiting
The night the north wind howled she fell, that frail frame shouts and frantic bustle could not call back the eyes that had closed
When the cold dawn slowly brightened beneath the toppled cloth doll lay a yellowed card, "To my daughter"
