Poor Father, Poor Son | Cremated Childhood, Poem

beggars, harlots, poor children

In the dim lighted shack,
Of straw, wood and rag..
Silence and silence prevailed,
Ever since nothing changed..

For the fathers and the forefathers,
Have never dreamt since they woke up...
Their sons and grandsons,
Are going to born choked up..

They will wish and see their wishes die,
Their broken hopes will make them cry..
They will cry till their eyes dry,
Gradually they’ll forget to dream and to try..

Their childhood will be cremated,
In the hearth of misery and poverty..
They will scrounge for red hot dimes,
In the fire of hunger with insanity..

And their fathers would see them,
Dance with grace…but no passion..
Sing with eloquence …but no freedom..
Beg with innocence…and no wisdom..

And their fathers would beat the drums,
As their heart beats for their sons..
They will stand in disdain, muted,
Cursing God within ,and themselves for once..

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