CRIES FROM A FAR

A generation in tears,
Crying to large-plastered-ears;
Like the roots of big trees,
Begging to for once be free...

Days and nights alike,
No light, not a strike;
Like graves underground,
sunlight never really comes around.

Educated fools
We become after school;
Office jobs are for 'the-other-ones'
As we survive like Sauce-pans.

Promises like barren-clouds
In summer with empty wombs;
saying, 'here I am, joy I bring,
Smile, stop alarming...

But which joy
When a degree is like a toy,
Oh! Which smile,
When we keep walking endless miles?

Should we be in jubilation,
For being walking-street-decorations?..
Or should we praise for the misses,
In your empty promises?

Which hope..
Oh! Taata Natasha;
Is left in the pot
For youth of this lot?

step.obel@gmail.com