Who am I?
A question whispered in the silence,
Of a deaf world numbed by violence,
A question asked by a child,

And as the years flow by,
They imprint upon the child an eye,
Into its soul that it might gaze,
Upon the intricacies of its soul, its maze,
As Time shoos the child along,
Each touch of His hands strong,
Leaves a mark upon the child's heart,
Looking back upon these it seems an art,
Of showing the child how to grow,
Of building up what it needed to know,
A shaping of the child's being,
So that one day the eye could be seeing,
What made it so and how it came to be,
Who made you and what made me,

And in some circles of this life,
There is pain and untold strife,
And the children's eyes go blind,
Rendered so by those embittered and unkind,
They do not see the same as others,
These children abused by their brothers,
They know more darkness than they know light,
Often they forget that in this world there is right,

And yet each of us can easily see,
What is and is not meant to be,
As long as you are you and I am me,
And we don't flee,
From ourselves.