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I am born today, the sun burns its promise in my eyes;
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Mama strikes me and I draw a breath and cry.
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Above me a cloud softly tumbles through the sky;
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I am glad to be alive.
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It is me seventh day, I taste the hunger and I cry;
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my brother and sister cling to Mama's side.
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She squeezes her breast, but it has nothing to provide;
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someone weeps, I fall asleep.
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It is twenty days today, Mama does not hold me anymore;
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I open my mouth but I am too weak to cry.
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Above me a bird slowly crawls across the sky;
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why is there nothing now to do but die?
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The Shortest Story
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| Harry Chapin |
