For we sold our sleep for dreams of having the ways and means

to do more than just survive,

Yet those days never arrive

and we're as broke as promises,

minor strokes on political canvases.


What of healing as time advances?

Troubled sisters selling culture in tribal dances

on pavements built on the backs of forefathers.


Brothers say 'place shackles on how you feel

For a heart here is an Achilles heel'

and we're born soldiers of the night.


We're raising giants of the past,

Striving to make old glories last,

In stories on corners to cope with the lows,

Stitched together as the coldest wind blows.


Image by somnio_insania.