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Three hundred years, it’s all the same,
technology still bears the blame.
Unlucky ones,  the living bread,
are herded close, and fed to tame.

For thirteen years,these girls are led
until their first menstruation’s bled,
and if their womb be unadorned,
their bodies soiled and left for dead.

With death to she who bears stillborn,
more woe to she, whose child is torn
from loving arms, the newborn life,
This man-filled world, all women mourn.

Denatured man, unending strife
for each abused communal wife.
If fortune smiles,  she ends with knife
her geno-suicidal life.

Note:  This was written as a prompt from AllPoetry.com. The prompt was to describe a world where children just weren’t being born anymore.