A mother’s child cries out in the endless night.
There are sounds all around that he doesn’t understand.
The bombs explode and to him sound like the drums in a marching band.
The little child screams and cries out with fright.
A mother’s child cries out for help in the confusion.
The plea falls in ears deafened to his plight.
There’s nothing that he can see in the endless, blackened night.
What he hears creates an incorrect illusion.
A mother’s child has been left to die.
The mother too weak or sick or dead to care for her son.
The damage to this child’s family has already been done.
All that the child has left to do is cry.
A mother’s child is too scared, too weak to run.
His world ripped apart by the policy of others.
Policies that have the effect of separating children from fathers and mothers.
Wishes, dreams and hopes killed using a gun.
A mother’s child is cold, without warmth he shivers.
His tummy rumbles its objections to the hunger.
All around him shouts and guns sound like rolling thunder.
And the policy of others shows no waver.
A mother’s child has lost all sense of wonder.
There’s nothing left for him to do but die.
His hunger, the loneliness and the cold again make him cry.
His home and life, strangers plunder.
Is there a reason or an answer to why
This mother’s child must be made to suffer?
For him, from that mayhem and violence there is no plausible buffer.
For whose policies must he die?
