The Growing Strong

The flying kites, 

With no hands, 

On their threads. 

The falling bricks, 

Opening the walls, 

That divide the ways. 

The molding hands, 

Making pots, 

With mud thats wise. 

The long roads, 

To the paradise, 

Blended with stone and thorns. 

The sun and skies, 

The moon and the stars, 

And this nature with colors. 

The never no hands, 

And the never sad faces, 

With the never dying eyes. 

These, make my dream, 

Everyday, everynight, 

Whirling the waters hard to swim. 

Where can I, at mercy of gods, 

Find a freedom like those kites? 

Where can I, in these lost streets, 

 Find the falling bricks of discriminations? 

How can I, amidst all this ignorance, 

 Reach to a teacher with molding classes? 

Where can I, in these rotten cities, 

Get on the roads that demand real shoes? 

How can I, with these synthetic skins, 

Feel the touch of real love thats a bliss? 

How can I, painted with masks, 

Find my own face and of my brothers? 

These, make my dream and all, 

 Everyday, everynight, 

Growing strong with every fall.

-Aroon Che