Saturday, 10 December 2011


Crossroads time has come to you
and stares you in the face,
To make this world your oyster
or perish in this place.
Is what your mother had
sufficient still for you?
Do you want a lot, or her lot?
A purple haze or blue.

Your father was a working man
whose sweat provided bread
to feed a dozen urchins
and try to get ahead.
Still winter follows winter
and the story's still the same,
His back is bent, his youth is spent,
He fights a losing game.

Your mother is the martyr
and the victim, scarce a life,
A weary tired expression,
Once a starry eyed new wife.
She tries to tell her children
of mistakes she made and pain,
But she knows her words are useless
and her pleadings are in vain.

You have a voice, you have a choice,
To stay or break the mould,
To have a life, a decent chance,
Or far too soon grow old.
Do you want to taste sweet liberty
and reach horizons wide?
Or spend your life regretting
that your dream need not have died.

1 comment: