The Nuns Assist at Childbirth

Robed in dungeon black, in mourning For themselves they pass, repace The dark linoleum corridors Of humid wards, sure in the grace Of self-denial. Blown by duty, Jet sails borne by a high wind, Only the face and hands creep through The shapeless clothing, to remind One that a woman lives within The wrappings of this strange cocoon. Her hands reach from these veils of death To harvest a child from the raw womb. The metal scales of paradox Tip here then there. What can the nun Think of the butchery of birth, Mastery of the flesh, this one Vigorous mystery? Rude life From the volcano rolls and pours, Tragic, regenerate, wild. Sad, The unborn wait behind closed doors.