So do we, in love’s all knowing
pay once more this price for growing.
We brush away our young one’s tears
when life becomes demanding,
and offer in those tender years
a gentle understanding;
Yet we as lovers, slaves to passion,
lose our touch for such compassion.
We dream as children, trouble free;
careless nightly visions
as children’s dreams were meant to be
before life’s cruel revision.
That lover’s can’t makes perfect sense
for dreams belong to innocents.
Our children have so much to teach
and we so much to learn:
that childhood beyond our reach
is innocence lost, and common sense earned.
Life must demand this sacrifice,
but still, it hurts to pay it twice.