Always, too early . . . Always, too late . . .
We really are staring into an abyss:
They show us what they are,
That there are no limits they will not transgress.
Through their eyes,
The lives of others mean less, far less than nothing,
You, me . . . our children.
How can I stop it? I cannot.
Not for those for whom it is already too late.
Not for those to whom the calamity will yet befall.
It has the feel of a nightmare,
Of what is most frightening,
Of what is most unreal.
It is a nightmare. It is worse than a nightmare.
It is real.
. . . I wanted to make a plea.
I cannot. Always, it is out of time. Always, too early . . .
Always, too late . . .