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In the terrain of deplorable deprivation manifest in the wasteland of wretched desertion, the obscure tufts of the subdued slender grass struggle to rise through the cleavage of stony destiny. The frail faces shaping the artifacts of spiteful fate, flicker with the fading smile of residual innocence, borrowed from the remnant rays of the forsaken sun, already sunk in the depth of their desolate dark horizon. The children when they should bloom like flowers, wander withered to nowhere, uncared and soiled in the harsh squall of the juvenile servile servitude under the unbound sky lacking the flair of freedom. The infantile dewdrops devoid of pristine patina no longer bejewel the puerile grass of our meadows. Tarnished by the grime of our malevolent times the deranged dreams of disowned dew dry premature. In the twilight hour on the penultimate journey, I wish I could give the last rays of my setting sun, suffused with the spectrum of embellishing empathy, to the relics of the dewdrops so they can glow awhile. For their innocent smile not to desiccate in inimical world one thing we need to change is stop their exploitation, show the dispossessed children of the lesser God the pearly dreams of unblemished dew that never die.

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