Eight years, perhaps more
Tending chores, mopping floors
Forsaking a child of suckling breast
Where righteousness gives Mom a rest.
Where children go who have no place
To welcome them, their dirty face
Dirty secrets, hamper-bared
Where no one cries cause no one cares.
Nor the child not tending the soil
Who living from dawn to dusk, recoils
From worlds without, to worlds within
A mothers secret, a fathers sin.
Where all the rooms are neatly trimmed
Fences and walls hide the pain within
Tear ducts are all dried up, and fail
Condemned to live in children's' hell.
To work for naught and have only chores
To die within and live no more
To wash away the parent's sin
Where heaven stops and hell begins…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
OMG.... A very sad but a beautiful write.....so close to reality. Thanks for sharing.10+++