In the corners of time, wishes weep
And silence calls out: Is there a self in the heart?
Where poverty passes, passion does not pass.
Rather, the dream continues to cry out in dispersion.
They hold onto life with the hope that
There are still crumbs in the palm of their hand.
Their child cries, and the mother's eye is a fire
In the womb, concealing the collapses of life.
And the afflicted father waters their bread
With bitter sweat and the tears of the steadfast.
Their home is a roof of sadness that has risen
And a wall of hope and defeat.
Have you ever heard the sound of weeping?
In their silence, there are a thousand tales.
Despite this, their souls continue
To plant light on the path to salvation.
M