upon a day so clear
I thought I saw a falling tear:
A wrinkle in the sky so huge
Then caught me in its centrifuge;
Speak to me, the wrinkle said,
And tell me what is in thy head,
Why let the children wane and die
When all beneath this glorious sky
Is meant for them, was built for them,
We planned it to the hilt for them;
Why do you let the children die?
Why are you deaf when children cry?
No pow'r in heaven would condemn
Thy children to this stratagem;
O man, awake, and see this tear,
Mark it well, and learn to fear
The teardrops from a cloudless sky
That always fall when children die.
A Search For Meaning From the Surface
of a Small Planet
HEAR THE ECHO
THE EDGE OF FOREVER
©Copyright 2000, 2001, 2002 by Linda Pendleton, All Rights