Author: Horace Asher

It was a common shout of alarm from the victims of that time.
The tears of the desperate always proved its heaviness of weight.
The fall of tears from mother`s lobes tuned high its sounding
And the mourning to “gazillions of the gone too soon”
Put it to emphasis that the cry must win a response of new light.

These sounds of grief not loud enough to reach out to the entire universe,
Were a given a louder pitch, and messaged as more than necessary
By artists of art and literature, in music, text and speech
Though this foundation, was not sharp enough to penetrate
And find an office of work in the hearts of the recipients
The discharge of it turning gradual Till it was no more.

Now decades down the trail,
The forgotten message badly wanted.
Now standing as the only grain of wheat in the charm
This time not in a song, not said as a mechanism
But yet as a humble plea that demands a insightful calmness to find a deep rest in each of our hearts And that must be taken.

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Its meaning and significance needn’t be expounded any further
For its sound is loud enough to paint all it takes.
Frequently said like before,
Now not by the chosen but by each of us
Who are concerned about the new dying world.

By the words of my fore laureates, I together and again plead in the fronts of each of us
“To heal the world and make it a better place for you
And for me and the entire universe”
To re-bare the forgotten mystery.

By Horace Asher

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