Filthy air,
Putrid gasses.
Fathers can be found at bars,
Mothers at street corners,
Children sold into basements.
Ruble crushes together under my feet,
Shadows loom before me,
And I enter,
Curtains are pushed aside in my welcoming,
Polished wood covered in dust,
An empty stage,
A broken microphone.
The crowd cheers,
Covered in rags,
Smudged faces grin.
We are not weak,
We will not wait for a saviour,
We will save ourselves.
With these arms,
We will protect,
And build homes fit for children.
No comments:
Post a Comment