Born to a cradled age
Of my mother's love.
Baring teeth to the cage,
Bars hold the wild of
The child when gentle hands would do.
We would let the unborn die
When we fear the youth's coo
Like the coup of the rebel's cry.
We're being held over a ledge
And told we're in safe hands.
An impossible pledge,
Not looking where the child lands.
Look to the hands that hold you,
Do they hold you in vice or virtue?
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