Little faces upturned, watching.
Their childish prattle gives
a sense of security to us,
thinking that they are too young
to see or understand.
We are mistaken.
Their youth and innocence
are as fragile as their little bodies,
their perceptive nature-
an unspoken threat.
How long will this youth survive?
Will it remain, untouched
by the wretchedness of our sins?
Will it carry pieces of the
pain we've caused,
like shrapnel from war wounds,
until they painfully surface in later life?
Think of the children.
Your children
though maybe unborn,
your neighbor's children,
your best friend's,
your cousin's...
They see in you
what you cannot recognize.
They imitate in you
what you dare not recognize.
Unless you change,
they will keep repeating your pain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem