They held your hand when you could barely stand,
And guided you across the shifting sand.
With weary bones and sweat upon their brow,
They built the life that you are living now.
They skipped their meals to see that you were fed,
And kept the winter's chill from off your bed.
But now you stand established, rich, and tall,
While watching them begin to fade and fall.
To turn away and leave them in the cold,
Because their skin is gray and they are old—
Is not just pride, it is a hollow sin,
A war against the blood that flows within.
A parent's heart may break without a sound,
But their silent grief is heavy on the ground.
No wealth can hide the shame of such a choice,
To mute the echo of a mother's voice.
For time is cruel, and seasons always turn,
The lessons that you give, you'll one day learn.
When you are old and searching for the light,
Your children's eyes will judge your deeds tonight.