Whose Tears Are These?

Whose tears are these that speak to me so passionately?
Of the blinded amputee who sits at the temple lane with a burning belly,
Or of the hawker whose balloons have all flown away?
Perhaps of the child, once happy and bright,
Who now lays brick on mortar by day and night.

Whose tears are these that speak to me so ardently?
Of the mother whose daughter sleeps wrapped in the
coffin,
Or of the mother whose son was falsely blamed for the
crime?
Perhaps, of the bereaved parents who birthed a
child without life.

Whose tears are these that speak to me so fervently?
Of the bird whose cries are stifled by the warplanes
soaring high?
Or of the sleepless beings of the blaring siren night?
Perhaps, of the child, on the dawn of independence,
drenched in his father's bloody plight.

Whose tears are these that speak to me so vehemently?
Of the scoffed-at man who feels home in the skin of a
lady?
Or of the man whose heart yearns for a sight of his
knight?
Perhaps, of the kinsmen, bound tight in the societal
shackles' might.

Oh, whose tears are these?
Whose tears are these?