A boy, fallen, upon a beach - it's just, he couldn't quite breathe.

She said I was mean,
Cold hearted about these things.

That Lion, Cecil, was it,
Had died up in Africa, while I focussed on... other...
Everyday and mostly mundane things.
And a boy had fallen upon the beach,
It's just... he couldn't breath.

And perhaps the toddler's parents had been tortured,
Forced to leave a far flung war zone... a Syria, so to speak.
Maybe they leaked out of the country, fearing a regime.

And the boy, he'd fallen upon a sandy beach,
In Europe, a place his parents did as safe-haven seek,

But Europe rejected them,
As did the stormy seas,
And a boy sun bathed upon the lifeless beach...
He'd bathed in the treacherous seas,
Floating like driftwood upon a beach.
- Except, he couldn't quite as yet breathe, you see.

And she said I was mean,
Cold hearted, for I said he was one of many,
The cadaver of a boy, who'd once sung, walked, and dreamed.
The unwelcome corpse who'd immigrated onto the beach.
One of many, he is, I mundanely did speak,

And then did wonder my thoughts, my dreams,
I pictured them, as the photographer has the long sleeping infant...
The many dead toddlers, claimed by Europe's bordering seas.
Sunbathing upon the ocean floor, just as yet... unable to breathe.