I watch her, that mother who cradles her child,
On the screen, the reporters mute her volume,
She holds the little one gently, but take a look at her eyes,
And behold: a wild fire,the mayhem of a typhoon,
From that hickory brown cliff comes a song, louder than voice,
An untamed storm’s dance to a raging tune,
For they demand a childhood, for the little one who bleeds,
She was robbed of hers, they’ll rob him soon,
But I walk away, like you would’ve walked away, it’s alright, right?
Afterall, it’s that girl on the screen, not you.