An unsure world of hopes and dreams
are lost without a trace.
Mother’s gone and father’s left;
where do we turn?
Ah, if there isn’t a Golden hand that doesn’t mind
the differences of you.
On this, God’s earth, there are only those who need
and those who give.
The rain can pour from the heavens above.
She’ll shelter you.
Your tummy can rumble and growl for food.
She’ll feed you.
See, it’s not about what makes us different,
it’s not about spots and stripes.
What matters is what connects us; what matters
© Blake Leitch February 20, 2012