'midst the madness of many where many die,
I have heard my children cry;
and despite certain things that man has done,
they have dreams to build upon.
in this wreck of a world that I came to see,
let my little children be;
and even if lives aren't too much to spare
love them for all that is there.
for how much we think we have of them,
they do not have us;
to think how much they are our children,
children less of we.
in the course where a war had been fought at home,
my children haven't gone home;
and though it just happened that few are grieving,
theirs were a life of meaning.
by what we think we ought to give them,
they only lose us;
how all the more they are our children,
less of you and me.