There was a child who might have danced
barefoot in the summer dusk,
her laughter rising with the fireflies,
her life humming something soft in the meadow—
but never did.
There was a child who might have asked
a thousand questions about the stars,
kept his soul awake with whys,
believed in answers like bedtime stories—
but never did.
There was a child who might have painted
oceans on the inside of his walls,
made ships from crayons and faith,
and sailed beyond the reach of grief—
but never did.
There was a child who might have wept
only for broken toys,
whose wounds healed with time,
whose nightmares ended with morning light—
but never did.
There was a child who might have learned
the weight of kindness,
how a single held hand could keep the dark at bay,
how not to be afraid to live—
but never did.
And the world,
stone-faced and busy,
folded them into its silence—
as seeds in pockets,
waiting for ground soft enough
to grow again.
Song version:
Robert Walker 