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Sweet Children, Sleep
To the Newtown Children
A poet cries with broken heart
Look thine hearts be washen clean with death,
God knows how hastily can be
By an unfitting goodly young man
Become just another evil’s killer.
Take thou no mean of life
That so tenderly and small
Arranged now along that cold room
Where a hundred of parents
Like you and I look on poor children that thou think:
One day they shall be a doctor or a thinker like us.
To understand really why the hungry death
Has to do for their final journey in front of this sickness?
O, children! American children! My children!
I warn thee in all my heart and soul
That could not happen so earlier on life
And where thou cast the peace and saint in the kindness of grace
Take care of them from danger, thou take for a leaf
And makes my heart bleeding every one like us become angry
How in this heavenly nation this massive fate could occur?
Hold me fast in thine embrace God,
Where my despair cannot be silenced,
Let you and me and everyone else to knee and cross
Our fingers against our chest and pray for them,
Give them, Lord, thy blessing give,
Pray for them and mother as well,
And I shall finish this poem with trembled
Fingers and tears cascading over this bloody
Sheet as an awaken wind has just blown it from me.
Copyright ©
George Zamalea
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