The Cycle of the Slum

The parent prepares their child for the world.

Their love coats them from the harsh

reality of surviving - making a living,

In a world that's always taking, and never giving. 

A country filled with hate, the opposition

is infinite and traps people with war. 

But the parent crafts a peaceful illusion to live in

With no boundaries - a paradise amongst ruin. 

My mother created a playground from a slum, 

A bath became a swimming pool concealing magic

To cleanse the pain of where we dwell;

A foreign land; nurturing nothing but hell. 

The race to find food between the forests 

of plastic, became a game we frequently played.

Mother said that the prize, was all the food would be mine,

Only now do I notice that I won all the time. 

And the silver buttons that hastened through 

the air, to collide with our neighbours �"

The rebels shouting throughout the street �"

Mother said they were only to put them to sleep. 

She would let me stay up when evening came

To see the planes that would sweep above our heads,

Dropping black boxes as they fluttered by:

Red, orange, white - shining fireworks in the sky. 

Sometimes we hid under our old, worn blankets

Hexed with the power to keep us safe.

Men dressed in uniforms of brutality, mother said,

Could search our home and raid our beds. 

It was for our protection they'd say

Ensure that we were all in perfect rows. 

My mother concealed the corruption from me,

And let me believe that we'd one day be free. 

And now, mother, with my child I learn

from your grace - mould a world of serenity.

A childhood enriched with joy rather than sorrow,

Let him believe there is always tomorrow.  

The parent tells lies in a country soaked in guilt

When the life of a child becomes the life desired. 

Because the peace is scorched by the truth of surviving,

The rubble slips like grains while the government's thriving. 

Many try to grasp peace with an ever tighter clasp,

But it’s drowned by blood guilt; the innocence splinters

And I stare at my son, as my mother did every day,

I dread when he'll grow, enter the world of rotten clay. 

For the parent living here, prepares their child for hell

By fashioning another world - a purer shell. 

Our naive children blossom, in this euphoric game,

Until the time comes for them to do the same.