Flowing through the opening in the power of the flood waters
He screamed his fears and displeasure, the wet and brutal cold
We heard him, for a first time, placed in her arms, as if an altar
His world was new, wet from birth, we knew he was pure gold
For it was in him that the world could trust, in pure innocence
He was dealing with a shock of life, the power of an entrance
In 30 turns of the sun, he'd be the most influential man of time
Another was born, with no noise, the pain silenced by sorrow
He knew he didn't belong, nor did he deserve new tomorrows
Count the blessings, they're not equally spread in the species
One is born rich, one poor as dirt, one wounded, one pleased
One might argue not give up but, we've no choice really
"Beware of him who hates the laugh of a child.” Henry Ward Beecher
