Let Their Dreams Not Die

In the indifferent desiccated wasteland obscure tufts of slender grass struggle to rise from cleavage of ruthless rocks, their tips holding the pearls of dew drops sparkling in the shine of the rising sun. I see in them the faces of children of fate lighted by the waning smile of residual innocence, although regrettably for them the sun rises with no rays of hope, no tinge of dream, for it has already set in the dark future horizon. The infirm dew drops don’t bejewel the grass, they’re tarnished by the dirt of our times. In harsh winds of servitude they toil, uncared and soiled, they dry and disappear, ignored and abandoned. In the glare of the blazing sun the dreams of dew die premature. It pains me, it hurts me to see their blank colorless faces carrying the vestiges of joy of juvenile splendor flowing in tears, drowning in depth of obscurity, Nobody helps, doesn’t hold their hands, nobody cares, doesn’t take them to shore. In my twilight hours I wish to give the last rays of my sun to the hue-less dews so they can glow, I wish to drip the last drop of empathy so their innocent smile doesn’t dry, I wish to show the children of deprivation the dreams of dew that never dies. April 4, 2019 (This poem is a protest against child labor)