When we’re chilled by illness or bereaved
The spring tides of the seas of memory lust
The mind’s door swings, the torture scene’s retrieved
Children have no power and cannot leave
Adults fearful,wild, and, more, callous
Caught too soon by fools and madmen’s weaves
In Europe where our vicious wars conceived
Children dwelled the depths of frozen malice
And dreadful memories steal their minds like thieves
Are souls mature enough to learn from such deep grief
When we feel like rubbish, thrown adrift, alas?
When we’re struck by hardships , we still seethe.
Adults have the power to look, perceive,conceive
Each child is Jesus,tortured,tried, and tossed.
This is the birth and death of memory
My heart is pierced by children on the News.
Echoes shake this heart till black and blue.
Whether felled by error,war ,disease
With patience , can we tolerate unease?