The child who cries from silent pain, Longing for bread, for sun again. His eyes are wide, his stomach bare, A world so cold, no one to care. Who hears his voice, who sees his plea? Who lifts him from this vast debris? The old man lost in fading light, His hands now weak, his back not right. Memories drift like gentle breeze, Of love and war and quiet peace. His days are slow, his nights are still, What’s left to want, what is his will? The sick lie quiet, pale and worn, Their breath is heavy, bodies torn. Forgotten in a sterile room, Where hope may fade or softly bloom. A touch, a word, a fleeting smile — Can heal a soul, if just awhile. The baby small, with fragile frame, Born to a world that knows no name. So light, so faint, a future dim, A cradle full of whispered hymn. Who guards his life, who holds his hand? Who helps him rise, who helps him stand? The veteran with haunted eyes, Who fought through fire, beneath the skies. His heart once bold, now torn apart, His dreams erased, his sleeping dark. What did he give, what did he gain? A medal, and a silent pain. And she, alone in love’s regret, Her heart betrayed, her pillow wet. She weeps in silence, undefined, Drowned in what she left behind. Compared to all, she seems so light, Yet sorrow gives her face its night. Is this the life we’re meant to know? Should we not care, not let it show? To live, to give, to truly see, In every tear, in every plea. To live or let live — yes, it’s true, But never pass without a view.
