TOMORROW

An old poem in New light

Fisherman – Your boat is drifting,

Take my hand, bring it ashore.

Inalienable hardship at work,

Never identified by my hungry fork.

Militia - Your march is tiring,

Take my feet and my boots – make your trip.

Those icy thorns pricks you everywhere,

Ignorant lives here; Let me be there.

Courtesan – There is someone at the door,

Tonight let me go, you mend your sore.

Happiness sold in this market of deaths,

Dream abandoned nights for tasteless breads.

Mother – Don’t let your child grow,

Let it be at your breast.

Those vultures are flying low;

There is still a tomorrow

Shamsud

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