- Isaac Petersen
- Jun 6
- 1 min read
They’ve seen it all —
they, the little ones, our little ones.
Playing in parks paved with broken glass dreams,
where laughter echoes through rusted swings,
and innocence is a shadow.
They’ve seen it all —
uncles and aunts, hollow-eyed and heavy-limbed,
feeding on poisons they once swore they’d never touch.
Now, the little ones watch, wide-eyed, learning.
"Look what I found!"
he proclaims,
lifting a cigarette bud —
cold, crumpled, still carrying the ghost of someone who once held it like hope and inhaled despair.
They’ve seen it all.
Before their feet ever touched a school floor,
before their hands knew a pen —
they knew poverty, not just in coins, but in moments lost,
in futures shaped by smoke and silence.
But Hope —
Hope was held in the heart of one man.
And from his hands,
a ripple reached another.
“Look!” he cried,
“Uncle and Aunty are painting our park!”
Eyes wide, feet racing to the color.
Excitement blooming like spring in winter.
Hope introduced Himself to the little ones —
not in words,
but in action,
in the brush strokes,
the laughter,
the shared hands.
What do they now see?
Community.
Creativity.
And the greatest of all —
Love.
"Do not hinder them; let the little ones come to Me,"
He said.
And now ... they run.
