The unborn child.

I am not yet born, console me.

I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,

on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born. Provide me

With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk to me, sky to sing to me, 

birds and white light in the back of my mind to guide me. (Louis MacNeice, 1907-1963, from "Prayer before birth", Ireland)