Upon his red forehead, the cold moon falls,
My brother’s face, a sad painting calls.
I pause my steps, and quietly take,
His childish hand, for both our sake.
“What will you be when you grow tall?”
I ask with hope, though he’s still small.
“I’ll be a person,” he softly replies,
His words, though simple, seem so wise.
I let go of his tender hand,
And look at his face, I try to understand.
The moon still rests on his crimson brow,
His face a painting, full of sorrow now.
“What will you be when you grow tall?”
I ask with hope, though he’s still small.
“I’ll be a person,” he softly replies,
His words, though simple, seem so wise.
The cold moon sinks into his skin,
And sadness lingers deep within.
His face, like a canvas, painted in pain,
I see it now, again and again.
The moonlight chills, the night is still,
Yet his young face carries a will.
A hope, a dream, though faint and shy,
I see the weight beneath the sky.
As I look at him once more,
His face, a painting I can’t ignore.
The cold moon stays upon his head,
A portrait of sadness, softly spread.