As the night twists
Unhappily like a knife
Into a vital organ,
All I can do is ask
Where is my daughter
Of a pretty age?
I’m cloaked in despair
And filled with rage.
I wish I could
Hold her hand
And talk in a secret place,
But I remember,
I’m childless
And finishing my course
In infinite loneliness.
Uriah Hamilton
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/daughter-of-a-pretty-age/
