When a writer pens a love letter,
those words will never grace his lips to another,
or fall on ears more deaf than yours.
When a writer writes about you,
he writes about all that was,
he writes about all that could be,
he writes about all that is,
he writes about all that will never be again.
What will you tell your children, your grandchildren, your great-grandchildren in 50 years? Will you tell them it wasn't your place, your responsibility, your place to stand up and say something?
Will you read them the memoirs of Holocaust survivors? The memoirs of Holocaust victims that never made it out?
I find myself lost in the big big world
Reaching for hands and desperate for straws
Beneath the cries for help
Stands a man sinking in the sand
I know where he's been
Know what he's done