for the orphans of the drug war

I remember a childhood I didn't have, 
Spent under the shade of trees in temperate climate. 
A sky that promises more days 
Waiting for the air to turn from electric to biting. 
Someone cries for a hunted parent in winter, in the thick of the woods. 
I've never seen a fawn or snow, 
But I know that cold, wobbly-kneed search for something irretrievable. 
The image is foreign but the loss the same 
Gunsmoke nipping at the throat. 

No spring here in the tropics. 
Flowers bloom all year round. 
Who understands why they do what they do? 
I only know they're loud and quick to death, 
Drawn to the casket. Meadows grow for funerals.