Never counting minutes of existence from beginning to end,
for they are of no importance to anyone until the end is
in sight.
Sacrificed on an altar of angry rebellion, taken from the
safety of a home and placed in foster care.
Wanting the madness to end, not doing anything about it's
menacing attitude, sitting back on haunches, racked with
age-old, pent-up feelings.
Situated in a factual event, not knowing what it is or why,
and being counseled hatefully.
Unwanted by anyone, including the therapist, running away
from the impertinence of a life-long pastime.
Aware of surroundings, feeling the pain of hatred and
abandonment, being kicked out, alone, in a foreign place.
Unheard of, never again seen, lost in the empty horizon of
another's dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There is a flip side to this poem as well Roseann! My sister is a psychologist who used to work for Bruno Betelheim's School in Chicago for emotionally disturbed children. Sometimes, after months of working to establish trust, the parents, on seeing the progress the child has made, ignore counsellors and take the child back home to the very environment that mad the child sick in the first place. Imagine yourself in that child's shoes! Honestly this world is a nightmare for some and they never get to wake up! A sad an poignant read. Thanks for sharing!