My heart is heavy.
After Peshawar, my baby was my balm.
Her warm, soft body caught my tears,
and kept me calm.
After Manchester, my baby is now four.
I don’t know how to speak to her about the horror
that’s reached our shore.
After Nice, Paris, Brussells, and many, many more,
my baby is not my balm.
She has a brother now and I
cannot shield them from such harm.
Aged four and one, they dance innocently
to any sound they hear.
I won’t teach them how to fear.
This venue, these children – it’s all as senseless as before.
No bullets this time, but the bones were no more grown,
and more faceless men keep score.
These small children of mine, will grow
and are home with me tonight.
I will teach them to dance
at every chance.
My heart will provide the beat.