Etched in the sky
are grey clouds.
They bring tales of rain,
surely to bless
the crops farmers
diligently grew.
Boys in the schoolyard
dream of no classes,
of siestas,
afternoons without folly —
just laughter
and sweat-soaked plays.
They will one day
become men,
adults of the real world,
or maybe of
lesser trivialities;
but for now, banalities.
The little girls
keep their houses indoors
with dolls and make-believe,
sometimes with other children,
losing precious moments
to waste,
to lighter matters:
food, beauty, dreams,
and far-off fantasies
too old or too grand.
Dreamers remain dreamers.
Yet none of them
seems to have heard
the answer
to everyone’s prayers.
It may be
too hard to take,
too crooked, prickly,
splintered at the edges —
but it is still
the voice
we whisper to
with wants, apologies, pleas,
desires and undesires,
plans and leaps.
One word,
too loud,
coarse, brittle, hollow:
“Surrender.”
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