• Coldness cradles a newly arrived child, and from its arms the small child struggles to life, gasping rapid breaths and between each breath, longing cries for the one who brought it into the world.
    To no avail it cries, now only the cold and unfamiliar arm receives it.

    And in those arms, cradled there is the small delicate creature, whose skin is of a rosy parlor and yet undeniably growing colder by the minutes. Its petite chest heaves very mightily until it becomes only a shallow rise and fall, as if its struggle for life was almost abandoned.

    Moments from now, the child's breath will be stolen from its new lungs and with one last breath the lovely hue of rosy pinks will fade from the child, and its delicate features will become cold and pale in colour. For in the moment the child received life, it thought only of its new found hunger and the absence of its mother, though as the color faded from its cheek and its urgent cries quiet and ceased, it thought no more.

    The patient mother waits in vain, for the room opposite hers where the lovable creature lays in wait. Though there bides only the reaper, consoling the very child she awaits. Coaxing it to to relinquish what little life it struggled to hold to, to find solace in deaths arms. So the child will find comfort cradled in the reapers grip, and the mother will find grief in the cold features of the newborn child.

    Pity for the mother who waits in vain for the child she would never nurture, and to the newborn that would never feel the warmth of her breast.