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Fresh wounds of broken spirits, Dry scars of long ago broken hearts. Soft whispers of trembling, scared souls, Loud moans of chained, caged dreams. These Are portraits painted on their faces, These Are images captured in their eyes. They would love to be happy, But somehow it is too expensive for them to afford, They wish they could smile, However, that is too high a dream for them to imagine, They have been beaten by life not once, not twice, They have been battered by time's hurting whip all their lives. Comfort is a star that swims far from them, far away from shore, Peace is a cloud that flies high up above their reach, They are perplexed, with souls torn and worn out, Life to them is of no meaning, it has lost direction. What clay will bake them, recreating their form? Who shall breathe life in their mortified nostrils? What music will cause their sleeping hearts to leap, dancing again? If not words, words of life, Yes words, words of life