My Children

I sit in the grass looking up the sky. Clouds pass as a breeze blows. To almost all, the scene seems perfect. Yet I am unhappy. How could I take pleasure in such perfection whilst immeasurable atrocities take place in areas of the world most people don't know exist. My mind is constantly plagued with the struggles of those helpless in the world. Diseased and starving in a war torn land. And we complain about the weather. Why can't I help them? Why can't I at least find a way I would be able to help? Children screaming out at me, yelling my name in panic as they reach out towards me. I try to bridge the gorge between us but it is too vast. No matter how hard I try I am never able to save them. All I wanted to do was help people. They cry my name 'David!' with tears streaming down their cheeks. If I do not save them they will certainly die. Vultures circle over them biding their time. I can do nothing but watch and cry. I talk to them, but words do them little good. Hundreds perish, each face seared into the back of my skull. Our culture is so needless its shameful. Why can't more people see them? Why can't more people here the cries of my children?