when we were kids,
imagination was always colourful
and we were on high horses
sliding down rainbows
gliding across stages
and we rode with the flow.
but now,
for them,
imagination is muted.
imagination is just mere hope
that maybe tomorrow their mother won't cry herself to sleep again,
hugging her own body as she trembles under a single touch.
that maybe tomorrow their father won't go past the door and give them a longing look,
lingering with sadness as if he'd never see them again.
they hope that maybe the birds will sing louder than the cries from next door.
they hope that maybe the yellow slide from the playground nearby won't be painted red,
they hope that maybe the bread from yesterday won't be swarming with worms,
they hope that maybe they will soon see their teachers and play with crayons again.
they hope that this isn't imagination.
they hope and hope that the world will cradle them,
that the world will put a blanket on their mothers' stained skin,
that the world will make a golden armor for their fathers,
that the world will build their houses from the sparks of fire and the tears they shed.
they hope.
so let's make that happen.
