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We see their gentle faces,
On a shining TV screen,
Eyes hardened from their struggle,
We change the channel; turn away.

We make our meek excuses,
As to why we turn our backs,
“They're in a different world” we say,
“It's not our problem, not our fault.”

We see an image on the news,
A child picking cocoa beans,
A mother sheds a tear and says:
“Thank God that's not my son.”

We dismiss it as an issue,
That can never now be solved,
We let our hearts grow hardened,
As we push it from our minds.

So many childhoods stolen,
Too many children gone for good,
The time's now here for us to mend,
The souls still there torn; shred to shred.

This heart of stone now wants to bleed,
To let those hardened eyes grow soft,
To help make right the wrong it's seen,
And maybe then we'll be redeemed.

By: Ruth Ní Bheoláin