In truth, you would beseech me endlessly,
Your guilt a heavy stone upon my breast.
A child of love you wished to thus conceive,
A secret trust that no one ever guess.
No obligation—none—you staunch did swear;
No ties, no tasks, no burdens to confound;
Just you, your child, and hope to here forbear,
And I a memory lost, my life unbound.
No simple matter to unyoke a heart,

Yet there to leave a shackled soul to roam;
Though I, in pleasured moment play my part,
And so condemn my conscience to a tomb.
A life so precious must spring forth from love—
Or I stand dastard damned with naught to prove.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.