The Dying Children

America is crying for her children
Something must be done,
For they are dying in our streets
In their desperate search for fun.

The joys we knew when we were young
No longer fill their needs;
They've learned instead to seek the thrills
That come from evil deeds.

When kids are sad or they are bored
They often turn to crime,
So in their most important years
They end up doing time.

Not long ago who would have dreamed
That kids could get a gun
And join the war out on our streets
And kill someone -- for fun.

Our streets are red with children's blood
Brought down by their own peers,
Cut down in the first bloom of youth
And could not live out their years.

* * * * * * * * * * *

One day I went to prison
To interview a youth
Who once had killed two people--
I went to learn the truth.

He shot two boys down in cold blood
When their backs were turned,
Some people said he had a rage
Inside him that just burned.

I asked him first about his crime
Why two boys had to die.
He answered me without a pause,
He never blinked an eye.
"I was just 15 at the time
I went out after dark,
I picked the victims randomly,
I did it for a lark.

"I realize now that it was wrong
It made my mother weep,
But I don't think about it now,
And I never lose much sleep.

"I never showed remorse,
Because it was too late
But people said that what I did
Was triggered most by hate.

"I never hated those two boys
Because they were just strangers,
Who wandered out into the dark
Regardless of the dangers.

"They didn't know that I was waiting
With gun and anger armed
Because they both were innocent
They thought they'd go unharmed."

I asked him if he ever thought
About those two boys' mothers,
About the horror and the sorrow
Of their relatives and brothers.

"I didn't think about it then,
I know that that sounds cold,
But I was only 15 years
And that's not very old."

He spoke of deprivation
In childhood and youth,
He promised to reform
And swore he spoke the truth.

I hoped he was sincere
And didn't tell me lies--
But still I was disturbed
By the cold look in his eyes.

I often think about him
And wonder how he fares,
Spending years in prison --
I wonder if he cares.

****************

I hear of other children
Who fight and maim and kill.
We haven't found the answer--
Perhaps we never will.

It's easy to point fingers
And find someone to blame,
While our streets resound with gunfire --
It is our nation's shame.

I think about this problem,
I know that it runs deep;
I think about the killer's words,
"I never lose much sleep."

If there is any lesson
To be learned from this warfare:
We have to love our children
And teach them how to care.


Sylvia Honig
February 1995