34,361, by Fiona Allen

It is not necessary that they might have been future Nobel Prize winners,
a latter-day Mozart or a new Rodin.
They might not have made apple trees grow from stony ground,
or created a place where tigers roll unhindered in patches of sunlight.
It is only needful to know this;
someone fathered them, gave birth to them,
loved them, hoped for a better life for them,
and set out across a cold dark sea with a mixture of hope and terror in their hearts.
And each of these deaths is another drop into the
waters at the bottom of the well of sadness.