Stay Golden

                                       Babies of the Lost Generation

 
Not even the wise can predict the day,

When a life may change in most violent a way.

A storm howls in amid gusts of fear,

And makes loud each din in a small child's ear.

Those hateful winds; they rise and soar,

Until the path is clear no more.

But cry not wee child and do not fear,

For after the wild the calm shall appear.

I hope that at your journey’s end

These words you might hear from a neighbouring friend:

“Just breathe- you’ll be OK,
 
And hold my hand throughout this day.”

For laps of kindness will line the shore,

And your worries will be no more.

Each wave will gather speed,

Just as day follows night- bringing you safely to land and holding you tight.

 

For the lost generations of innocent refugee children in the world.