Thursday, May 25

Street Child. Revisited.

Street Child

on the streets of light
lived with failing might
one hungry boy and a girl
in a cold damp corner and a will

up high in the house
near a warm fire with a cause
one man with a white paper
wrote a story of a child proper

two souls from worlds far apart
one lived on, another depart
left the girl and the white story
long black night and a girl hungry

the white story wrote
a child in paradise
as the black night swallowed
a nameless boy died, the girl cried

this street child on a cold night
deserved a paradise or a fight
that white story child loved more
the other street child ended sore


a boy and a girl
born to a mother like pearl
the newborns knows not more
than maybe the mothers love

as the mother with children in hand
savors the cold water of the land
one white greed and hate
plans day and night their fate

one day the green hills and blue skies
turns dark with rain and clouds
from hell came the machines of war
death and destruction near and far

and when the mother awakes
not from slumber but bomb quakes
her time slips from her today
slowly snatching her children away


this street child’s story
sings in ears but not merry
one mothers burden and pain
stabs deep in our souls and vein

all our love and passion
to live without separation
one girl wishing her mothers womb
the boy lay dead without a tomb

in a world with gray days
wander mothers with end ways
from a world with a sky blue
sympathy from hands not true

white men with cold blood
don’t stop when all children culled
what greed drives your nation
death and the streets our consolation


remember the story of the street child
the one who died and his sister cried
its a true story in many streets
you and me and mothers left in weeps

and that white story the man wrote
its for the country of the blue people
who wants to watch the world burn
while the street children forgotten in the urn

white story man separate countries
the black night child dies centuries
so two child, one white one black
one in paradise the other on deaths stack

you and me and the century men
watch from afar children burn
the powers of voice silenced
by a white story we so wanted


one season in the night or day
the street child will come our way
our son, daughter, brother and sister
trapped in a century deadly sinister

come man and woman of lost souls
my pain in the hearts the same as yours
reclaim the lives of our times
want not one day our child lives on dimes

this century of blood and death
let not it be the white stories catch
the only blood that flows
will be the ones of true loves'

come street child of mine
a name will I give you to rhyme
today you will be my true child
a boy and a girl, a story told

-Gp 2005- 14/03/2005-

[-] Wrote this last year, posting this coz I have nothing to post today. Hope to get some comments!

[*] Street Child concerns the future of today's children. How wars ravaged lives and countries, how men's greed can destroy humanity. Wars doesn't particularly portray military politics, but so do wars within us.
[*] The colours in this poem attributes to no particular person or race. Today, anyone can fit in this slate, this 'role', this elegy. The mention of white and black, either as a story or child or man is to describe two extreme differences, black and white being at extreme opposites. Greed, lust or hate doesn't choose colours, it can develop in anyone. In our fast life today, we fail to stop and take charge of our destiny. We love to dream the destiny of material, not knowing that our relationships are failing, our loves are lost and our children further pushed into their own world void of feelings.
[*] Most of my writings are experimental scribbling, still finding the right form. But sometimes I think I am matured enough in my description of real world problems, of love, pain and sorrow. My dreams are not of a material future, my dreams are of friendship, love and family. Something that I lost and gained and keep on loosing many times. But I live on, in knowing that my troubles are not great compared to the children on the streets of Africa, Asia and South America who sleeps without shelter or food. Of mothers unable to feed their children, of countries deprived of life.
[*] Sometimes we think tragedy brings us together, how we helped the victims of the tsunami, how the whole world hand in hand send food and money to them. But we fail to realize that for decades, on any normal day, children and women die on the streets, abused, in famine, killed. Many of us know, many dont, how our economic and material needs, in some strange connection continues to deprive the lives of peoples in countries far away from us, how a few signatures on white papers dump chemical, dangerous medicine and tainted food in Africa. How our need and greed of brand names forces hundred of millions of children in Asia labor in factories, when they should be in schools. How political superpowers 'buy' and fund the death politics of third world countries. How long will we shut our ears, and eyes to this?

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1 comment:

Cinderella said...

You know I think the epilogue is nicer than the narration itself.
And like you've said it already,It does sound a lotta experimental.
And intelligent.


it rains around the world sleep welcomes the dream, and  enigmatic souls awaken along the eternal shores of destiny