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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pt9Xc4jO-Yc

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Perhaps, 

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It is the wounded child in us - 

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The neglected infant - 

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That calls so heartily for the importance of family,

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For the value of virtuousness, and for that of justice.

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Perhaps,

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It is in each and every one of us,

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This child of mourning -

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Of grieving, and of lost innocence -

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That reminds us how important it is to cherish that, which we may no longer get to have;

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That, which when we now so happen to stumble across it

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Appears only as a reflection of the thing we remember,

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Of a thing that once, held such incommensurable importance.

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I can say today, with complete certainty,

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That it is the abandoned child in myself

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That reminds me how strong a thing it is to love so unconditionally -

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That reminds me of the broken heartedness,

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The cracked glass so adjacent to growing up.

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And perhaps, how different it would have been

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Had I nurtured that child

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Rather than instead, casually, bravely and with such retrospective ignorance,

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Allowed him to fall away.

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I think too,

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That there exists that loss in each of us -

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Where the mourning of every heartbreak thereafter

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Is as no more than a symptom of the original injury,

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No more than, by extension, a deepened fissure

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Of that first lesson, in that the original loss.

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I think, in our own ways,

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We fight for the state of the world -

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We call for change in our governments,

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In our society,

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From within ourselves -

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As a terribly sad attempt to reconcile a wrong

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Against the child we were all forced to let go.

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Perhaps, it's true - 

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That we all wage war upon the Tyger

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To reconcile the death of our Lambs.

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Perhaps we call for change

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To reconcile the changes we can no longer affect.

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Perhaps, at least, this might be the case.

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Or perhaps again, the injured child is just another image -

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Another vision, one of the universality

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Of each our incubated, lost and wounded inner-children. 

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As it is, injustice does in fact wear many hats

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And strive as we might, I think it impossible to hang them all.

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But if there is indeed a child still,

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Weeping from within each our wounded,

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Beleaguered and bewildered chests -

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This child in us, weeping at the wrongness

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While we throw against the world's ambivalence -

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Than mine, at least,

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I can learn to soothe back into bed -

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And perhaps, in doing so,

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Set some example for everyone else's.

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