Killing field

Lying where you were born
in a sea of mud
Life offers no welcome;
no warmth
out of the womb.

Your eyes show only suffering at the lack
of things you've never known to miss.
Your mother
cannot give the relief of suckling
she knows is hers and yours;
has not enough love in lick
to clean you
of this field's taste of grave.

Unfit to eat,
for us you are part of an excess
of problems
the solving of which
with a humane shot in the head
will be fitted in
"quickly as possible"
in the sliding timetable
of annihilation
we call "getting things back under control."

A frosty night
would show more mercy.