In the street he fights for his life.
He rarely ever takes the time to look up,
Except to scream at the sky.
He's always asking, Why?.
With a gun strapped to his side,
He lays down for the night.
He tries to ignore all the terrible cries
Of women and babies he hears through the night.
Here at home, we sit and watch
The television as our brain rots.
We don't even think about
The little kids taking shots,
A 12 year old boy with a gun in his hand.
He's told, You have to do this to remain in my hands.
No protection, only corruption soiling up his mind.
This world is a thief. It's taken his family, his everything.
He's abandoned how he was taught to be proper.
God save the streets of Sri Lanka.
His mind goes back to the last day he was referred to as son,
Before the only thing he was taught to do was shoot and run.
He remembers the embrace of his mother,
And the words he heard from his father saying, welcome home.
I know there has got to be away to bring him back to safety.
God, send your children home.