The Shortest Story — Harry Chapin

I am born today, the sun burns its promise in my eyes; Mama strikes me and I draw a breath and cry. Above me a cloud softly tumbles through the sky; I am glad to be alive.

It is my seventh day, I taste the hunger and I cry; my brother and sister cling to Mama's side. She squeezes her breast, but it has nothing to provide; someone weeps, I fall asleep.

It is twenty days today, Mama does not hold me anymore; I open my mouth but I am too weak to cry. Above me a bird slowly crawls across the sky; why is there nothing now to do but die?