Our young are our future a crop we manage
birthing, raising, loving, shielding
until we release them to fruit in the world.
For they are the future of country and culture
planning, learning, loving, caring,
and carrying our lives, values on when we’re gone.
We share these values across the globe’s nations
whatever our colour, creed or nation
we strive for home and sustain our families,
no matter whether a beggar in rags, or rich as Croesus
for gold is but metal as Midas found
when bread and wine turned to gold he couldn’t drink.
Who hears the children afraid to go to school?
Scythed in their youth by the boy with gun
or broken and blasted by a tyrant’s bomb.
They are the crop that fell on hard ground
taken by birds of greed, war, ignorance
to favour the harlot of hatred and fear
she walks down the street with sympathy’s
flag and gun in a belt or bag
but the children are dead and the coffins parade.
© 2018, Carolyn O’Connell