📜“Letters to the Unborn”
By William Z. Bozimo
I write to those whose faces I may never see. The unborn souls who will inherit both our dreams and our dust. You, who will open your eyes to a world we shaped with trembling hands. May you find enough light to read the lessons we left behind. We were a generation of contradictions, loud in our faith, yet sometimes silent in our love; rich in inventions, but poor in patience; connected through humanity, yet divided by pride.
If history ever whispers about us, may it say: they tried. To you, dear unborn, we owe you all apologies wrapped in advice. We built towers but forgot to build trust; We took precedence over the atmosphere but lost sight of our neighbours; we taught machines to think but forgot to prepare hearts to feel. Please, Learn from us not to repeat our errors, but to rise above them with gentleness. When you find the ruins of our age, don’t despair.
As every generation leaves both scars and seeds. But yours is to plant where we faltered, to forgive where we failed, and to sing where we stayed silent. The pen that writes this will turn to dust, but words, if honest outlive the hand that shaped them. So I write, not for applause, but as a bridge across time. Carry these letters not as commandments, but candles, and prayers once unspoken but now dressed in ink and intention.
Dear child of tomorrow, I write across the silence of years, to the ones yet unborn who will inherit our laughter, our mistakes, and our unfinished prayers. For the future is not a place but a people, waiting to be kind where we were cruel, to hope where we were tired, and to heal where we were broken. We built bridges of metal, but not enough of mercy. We conquered speed, but not greed. We explored the world, yet lost touch with ourselves.
The unborn are not strangers, but echoes of our own souls, still rehearsing their entrance into the world’s grand theatre. To them, we bequeath not perfection, but a promise that even before their first cry, we were already listening. They are whispers inked in hope, and carried by faith across the invisible bridge between the living and the yet-to-be. Each word trembles with longing, as though its reader may not come in our season, but in another dawn where memory meets promise
But don’t let our flaws frighten you because every scar we leave can become your map to healing. When you rise, do better, love louder, wait longer, and forgive faster. The world you’re coming to is weary, but it still has room for your light. These are my letters to the unborn. Though not carved in stone, it is written in hope. In the quiet cradle of tomorrow, where time has not yet dared to breathe. These letters rest and are folded between the sighs of eternity.
✍🏽 William Z. Bozimo
Veteran Journalist | Columnist | National Memory Keeper
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