| AMIDA TRUST | |
Poetry All The Children by Zelda Alexander |
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My child, your child, what difference? All the children of the world One flow of life, new life, Hopeful. Not for long. How comprehend, how quantify The pain of children bereft Afghanistan, Bosnia, Manhattan Gaza, Baghdad, Jerusalem All one in their bewilderment How can you grieve for what you've never known? Barefoot children, hungry children Children ill and children maimed Brother killed, father gone, mother disappeared. Breathe into the pain, into your belly Sit with the pain, endure What else is there to do? Has the world gone mad? Is it a collective psychosis? We know so much of what it takes to grow a child. How long it takes, what love, what care, what work. We know how slow it is to heal deep early trauma. Often, it can't be healed, just lived with and endured. We know that psychic scars remain to haunt the children's children's children. We've seen it in second and third generation holocaust survivors tales. The Bible knew - '... even unto the 3rd and 4th generation...' Each day brings death, hunger, separation, loss, wounds big and small. I ask again, what madness seizes us? I feel such dread for the children, dread for all the children everywhere. Remember - there are happy children, healthy children Children with rosebloom on their cheeks Yellow wellies on their feet Children with a mother and a father Who splash in puddles, feed the ducks Read story books and play on swings. But what of those whose lives are blighted? Born with HIV, slaves on cocoa farms, in factories Caught up in war, in famine, in flight Each day of conflict, each day of bombs, each day without adequate medicine, each day of lack of food, brings more children into the arena of pain. When will we stop? Z. Alexander |