Wednesday, March 08, 2006
sat down not far away they saw
a half-sphere, in the skies so tall.
flushed with colours from the light,
that which resembled a rainbow so.
the viewers marvelled, the peasants rove,
about a sight so very rare.
for never a beautiful sight be seen,
in a place so cold and bare.
yet amidst the tension, amidst the pain,
there was laughter and chaos as they
tried to keep sane.
thunder-clouds take up positions,
preparing to pounce.
as they move in they cover,
the beauty the people had found.
choruses of groans enamate,
reverberating around.
mirages of silent screams
bringing the people back down.
so as they toiled and as they tolled
it mimicked the life of a boy.
he drove a half-broken bus
for some extra loose change
to get more cloth in winter.
and each day at work he'd see
the same faces, the same places.
in his concerns beauty has never
been at the races.
giving up on life and what it had to offer,
the bus boy turned his back on life,
one characterised by struggle and pain,
but he did not lay down and die.
he yearns for the day he'd see the light,
the half-sphere with seven colours.
no matter it be beneath the clouds
it would still be present nevertheless.
he turns his back on reality,
feeding his hunger of everything unreal:
he refuses to let anyone tell him about love,
only by himself would be be healed.
missing the sight he has yet to see,
loving the tale he has yet to hear.
for in the cold chambers of his malnourished soul,
laid a faint flame of hope which he holds so dear.
