I am the Child that lives on relief,
I am the brood, engulfed in grief,
For my long days, there is no tomorrow,
For my short life, no promise but sorrow,
My hollow groans go on, no reprieve,
Where I start always where I finish,
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My grievances, my milk, never diminish,
Windy tents have been always my home,
On stones I lie, I cry I roam.
Sands I seek, not to build a dream castle,
But to poke for relief’s crumbs and rubble,
Bread is as far from my mouse as the sun,
A mirage, after which I pant, I run,
With the echo of my cries, your music will double,
In the dust, of my bed, my hopes were smothered,
On my horizon, poverty hovered, and fluttered,
Hunger, sickness and ignorance are my trinity,
My cycle of three curses, till eternity.
Drought left me nothing, but straggling reeds,
To hide them from my goat, scraggly breeds,
Am I still a child, or have I grown old,
As old as suffering, so I am told,
Into reeds I exhale, then inhale my grief.
No chatter or laughter, no innocent fun,
For my chained feet, nowhere to run,
My beloved smiles, erased by horrors,
Focus your cameras lights and mirrors,
Behold the ruins of my tragedy,
Symptoms of my dystrophy,
Memories of my misery,
Of consoling me you are weary.
(عدل بواسطة Elmosley on 05-09-2012, 03:47 PM)
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Elmosley
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