Not quite a tear, rolling down slowly
Past the tired reddened cheeks
Straight out of silky hairy forest
Leaving toil marks of past weeks
Like a wind that roams in deserts
Childhoods blown away like dust
Sweated out in search for a living
Wasting lives to live death fast
Rays of light shining each morning
But some kids will see them not
Trapped in cells down in a factory
Where cheap gains a rich man sought
Elsewhere there’s a child who’s playing
With toxic fun of another’s pain
Half a day of breaking back bone
Bearing bruises of the chain

Patrick Galea
10-07-03