To throw the pink dressing gown,
Out of the window right down,
Five floors, six floors, seven, ten,
To open hands, waiting men,
Easy, if not being worn,
By the child that she had born,
Should she let the flames take claim?
Or take the chance, eat self-blame,
It’s done, cast away from fire,
Frozen image, tragic, dire,
Does the mother know its fate?
Does she dare watch and wait,
Or does she turn to her death,
Not knowing child still has breath,
But was there any other way,
Dressing gown would walk away.