They flock all together, the broken of the lot,
In front of a figure that they trust to make life better.
And they cry and they scream and they cry and they scream again,
Not knowing that words are heard irrespective of actually being audible.
There is someone listening, a mother figure to be precise.
One who knows without being told, one who gives without expecting, one who answers before being asked.
And she gathers these broken bodies and weary hearts and she holds them close.
In her embrace, these bodies find themselves, they find their souls.
They breathe, at last.
In the everlasting care of this mother figure, man turns into a little child.
Ridding himself of all ego and getting down on his knees, he prays.
And somewhere in the midst of silence he finds more solace than he ever found in screams.
In that moment a hand holds his shoulder and his body isn't broken anymore.
It's breathing.
In front of a figure that they trust to make life better.
And they cry and they scream and they cry and they scream again,
Not knowing that words are heard irrespective of actually being audible.
There is someone listening, a mother figure to be precise.
One who knows without being told, one who gives without expecting, one who answers before being asked.
And she gathers these broken bodies and weary hearts and she holds them close.
In her embrace, these bodies find themselves, they find their souls.
They breathe, at last.
In the everlasting care of this mother figure, man turns into a little child.
Ridding himself of all ego and getting down on his knees, he prays.
And somewhere in the midst of silence he finds more solace than he ever found in screams.
In that moment a hand holds his shoulder and his body isn't broken anymore.
It's breathing.
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