Sonnet, untitled

Wild, screaming and bloody was I at birth,
Where nineteen other mothers might share screams. 
Thus, twenty born in time soon die in dearth:
Our lives, all substance, wealth--no thoughts, no dreams. 

We're beaten gently by nurses, sometimes,
If our independent lungs refuse air. 
We cry, bewildered, not knowing our crimes:
Suck in air to cry--we breathe unaware. 

We grow, we learn to love, live, and commit;
Somehow, our brains can overcome all frays:
Nights unsleeping; throes of death's counterfeit,
'Til all giv'n effort untangles ablaze. 

How'ver wraught with pain and with griefs to cloy,
It is life and I live and it is joy.