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A tear to his mother’s eyes,
Whispers of her love.
The tortured son, here he lies,
Imprisoned by the dove.

The light of him evades my eyes,
In whispers he may speak,
The worry of his mother ties,
His life to this small peak.

This tiny boy may often fight,
Against the spirit of death,
For his small sometimes invite,
Intruders to his breath.

Although, loving arms do provide,
A warm haven to his eyes,
The evil sickness eats his pride,
And forces toward his demise.

A tear to his mother’s eyes,
Whispers of her love.
The tortured son, here he lies,
Imprisoned by the dove.

With time, his eyes grow gray and dull,
The sickness is the grave’s.
His mother, broken by the lull,
The spark of life depraves.

From these thin hands, a mother’s love,
Deprived of any son,
May soon learn the meaning of,
A child’s breath undone.

For to this day, his mother weeps,
Through blurring days of mild.
Her hands, still clawing at the deeps,
Refusing to bring her child.

A tear to his mother’s eyes,
Whispers of her love.
The tortured son, here he lies,
Imprisoned by the dove.

The light of him evades my eyes,
In whispers he may speak,
The worry of his mother ties,
His life to this small peak.