There is hope for every child ever born
under city lights or kerosene lamps.
God is fair, our paths with dreams he adorns.
The homeless, recruited young to be tramps,
children scavenging among rubbish bins,
sheltering under drains or shanty camps;
the child spotting its mum’s eyes and dad’s chins,
cradled in white gossamer blankets,
garbed and magnified in lustrous satins.
Each child, at birth, was welcomed with trumpets
sounded by angels of the sacred choir,
whether they were born of saints or strumpets,
love bestowed upon us savage desire
and a long train of unspeakable dreams;
that give us wings to navigate the fire.
Our Father records every labour screams,
there is hope for every child ever born.
So smile when everything is gone, it seems.
God is fair, our paths with dreams he adorned.