A young man dies on a morning’s cold
His wife weeping into her hankerchief’s fold
Her hands upon her belly to which she holds
A child unborn, now deprived a father we are told.
A little girl new with a Sunday’s frock
Couldn’t find her white matching sock
The church bell rang till the clock tick-tocks
Not at church, she search for the sock that’s lost.
A woman late in her thirty years
No food on the table, just eyes full of tears
For her children – one, three and five – she fears
For her husband’s return, she knew it aint near.
An old man brushing his teeth over the basin
Looks into the mirror, into the eyes that’s sinking
Reflects over his life and regrets what he had sinned
Took some pills out of the old labelled tin.
What is it with life anyway?
Why do we cry for the unborn child?
Why do we search for the unseen sock?
Why do we wait for someone that’s gone?
Why do we live a life that’s dead?
What is it with life anyway?
