This Child is Mine

This child is mine, I say to you, the patron. Mother. Father. Just you.

The child looks upon us with a smile, a wave, a hand gesture to say hi.

Unaware of the worlds dangers, unaware of the dangerous stranger.

"Make the child aware of the cruelty in the world, stop them from waving or saying hi," we say

but is this the right way?

Should the child be prepared for the cruel world, or should the world be kinder to our boys and girls?

This child is mine, I say to you. The Parton. Mother. Father. Yes, you.

The child cries because they are hungry, thirsty, or in need of love.

"This child isn't mine," say the downward stares, the daunting eyes. The pointed-up noses. The empty prayers.

Is this child ours? Shouldn't we care? Where are this child's parents? Where?

This child is mine, I say to you. This child belongs to the village, me and you.

The child we speak of is metaphorical of course, this child exists however in full force.

The child exists hungry, tired, and abused.

The child exists unloved, crying, and used.

The child exists as you walk past, ignoring the silent cries, the stares, the nervous laugh.

This child is mine, the innocent ones.

This child doesn't deserve to be invisible, hungry, abused, unloved.

This child is mine, yours, the worlds.

We are the village, these are the children of the village.

This child is ours, this innocent soul.

This child is hopeful, loving, and innocent.

This child is mine.