Ward of cries

Nine months was all it was going to take,
Yet here we’re three months shy of.

The air in others full of excitement and expectant,
Ours a dreadful stalemate of heaviness and emptiness.

From the other wards there’s newborn cries,
In ours devoid, only the loud silence of sorrowful cries.

Is the baby feeling ok? How is the baby?
Why did it happen? How did it happen, again?

They are looking forward to swaddled up little ones,
We are selecting undertakers and columbarium.

Such is the cruelty of nature,
Such is the sorrow state of life.