The terror and the joy,
And aspirations of a Ghetto boy,
Unlike the dead expressions of a toy,
Sunday tales a year to come around,
Maturity comes a creeping and tip-toe.
And Time passes surely but slow,
The days, when are wonders why we live,
Why we keep breathing in this world at all,
Gone are the clouds of despair.
The helpless, helpless help hot lonesome days,
Who stole my baby’s sheep I must know,
The fairies of the dreams have now vanished,
You were hidden in me as desire.
How little things release the paint up stream,
That fleeting moments rustle like a dream.
