The past is not deprived of its events
resting in the bosom of bygone valley,
carved in rigid love craftily decent
like the gulp graciously landing at sea port of belly.
While the future eludes not the belle
with whom it has had memoir in hallucination
of seducing hands, tender in caressing its belly
for commensurate rewards in anticipation.
Meanwhile, I’m like a hand of time
progressively sitting in the middle
of the counted and uncounted mines.
Maverick confronted with seasoned dribble.
When will I stop my heels from accelerating in cycle?
The weary marathon is recycled
such that it leaves considerable intervals yet to be circled,
even though I always thread forward in retrogressive circle.
No counting is of the old
till I grow old in the cold.
Shrouded in a coat as I repeatedly quote
‘Who Am I?’
When a child is surely born, hopes surround her future,
Celebrations are all over, innocence is seen in her eyes,
Life is in the making, for growth is surely inevitable,
Not knowing what awaits her, and what the future holds.
And now reality is here, the sweet child is weeping,
Crying with no redemption, attention has eroded,
Aaah! Abuse is the order, the rights have faded,
From beatings to punishing, harassing of the girl,
Molesting of the angels, is killing of our future,
Denying of their rights, is surely retrogressive,
So many are afflictions, of the little children,
If God loved them so, why do denounce them.
Touch their hearts, never pierce their hearts,
Stop! Stop! The violence, help save the children,
Report any violence, curb this immorality,
And bring back the smile, of the little children.
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