By William Blum (http://killinghope.org)
When they bombed Korea, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, El Salvador and Nicaragua I said nothing because I wasn’t a communist.
When they bombed China, Guatemala, Indonesia, Cuba, and the Congo I said nothing because I didn’t know about it.
When they bombed Lebanon and Grenada I said nothing because I didn’t understand it.
When they bombed Panama I said nothing because I wasn’t a drug dealer.
When they bombed Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia, and Yemen I said nothing because I wasn’t a terrorist.
When they bombed Yugoslavia and Libya for “humanitarian” reasons I said nothing because it sounded so honorable.
Then they bombed my house and there was no one left to speak out for me. But it didn’t really matter. I was dead.
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The Archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the Archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Question: Why are “He” and “His” written with capital letters?
[This work is in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 75 years or fewer.]
I expect to pass through this world but once;
any good thing therefore that I can do, or any
kindness that I can show to any fellow-creature,
let me do it now; let me not defer or neglect it,
for I shall not pass this way again.
When I born, I black.
And you white people.
And you calling me colored??
Written by an African child and nominated by UN as the Best Poem of 2006.
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
William Blake 1757-1827
So the question is: What is “the invisible worm that flies in the night”?