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When the children cry, the world should stop and listen, for their tears are not merely drops of sorrow but unspoken truths, silent pleas echoing through the bones of our shared humanity. When the children cry, the earth trembles, sensing the deep ache of innocence wounded, of dreams broken before they had the chance to soar. These tears, delicate as they are, carry the weight of shattered promises, of a world that has let them down.
In war-torn lands, when the children cry, it is the sound of bombs replaced by sobs, of innocence forced to witness ruin and loss. Their tears fall like rain on dusty streets, seeping into the ground, as if begging the earth itself to rise up and shield them. And when the children of broken homes cry, they are the voices of love left unanswered, their small hearts yearning for warmth, for the simple gift of belonging. Each tear is a note in a song that the world must learn to hear—a song of unfulfilled embraces, of hope trapped behind closed doors.
When the children of drunken parent’s cry, their sorrow is deep and silent, for they know not how to voice a pain so complex. Their tears carry a quiet dignity, as if they’ve learned too soon to bear burdens meant for older shoulders. They whisper to us, asking for a gentler world, a world where no child must watch their parent disappear into a haze, where love can be their shelter, not a shadowed corner they must hide from.
In fields and under open skies, when the children of landless labourers cry, their tears fall on the same soil their hands work to tend. The earth becomes their confidant, their silent witness, absorbing their sadness with each footstep, each whisper. And the children of daily labourers, who watch as their parents break themselves day by day, their tears are quiet, yet they ask us: how long must love labour under the weight of survival?
When children cry, schools feel emptier, homes grow colder, and parks stand still in mourning. A world without laughter loses its soul, but a world filled with children’s tears loses its heart. In their cries, we are reminded that a future where children must suffer is no future at all.
And in the church, when children cry, it is the prayer of the purest faith. It is a call for healing, a cry for kindness, a plea to be seen, to be loved, to be protected. They are closer to the divine than we can ever be, and their tears are holy waters, reminding us of the duty we bear to honour, cherish, and shield them.
For when the children cry, the world should stop and listen. Their pain is our responsibility, their future our promise. Let us answer their cries, let us hold them close, let us be the guardians of their laughter, their innocence, their boundless dreams. They are not just our tomorrow; they are the gentle, urgent voice calling us to be better today.
Fr. Innocent sdb