When the bough breaks, the baby is dead

This poem poses a question i think that we all struggle to understand at times

When I’ m alone, and the leaves are dull and brittle
As they fall from their branches, crying, and finally settle
Upon this cold city made of stone, barren and haunted
By ghosts of women and children, whose bones lay battered and forgotten
Which is it? Is this just the beginning or the sad, cold ending?
My lullabies aren’t working; this bough is breaking not bending