Let Their Dreams Not Die
In the indifferent desiccated wasteland
obscure tender tufts of slender grass
struggle to rise through the 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 the 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 horizon of future.
The infirm dew drops don’t bejewel the grass,
they’re tarnished by the dirt of our times.
In the 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 the depth of obscurity,
Nobody helps, doesn’t hold their hands,
nobody cares, doesn’t take them to the shore of wellbeing.
In my twilight hours
I wish to give the last rays of my setting sun
to the hue-less dew drops, 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 would never die.
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