To lie in bed,
At peace with the world;
That memory is dead.
"To your studies," cries out
The voice in my head.
I want to to run, but it states:
"Cast away the dread,
For you are a fortunate one:
You are well-fed.
Many brothers and sisters cannot say thus,
And starve instead.
You must succeed and never forget
Where you were bred."
I curse the world for this burden.
Tears have I shed,
Not for me, but for the people,
Who cannot move ahead.
Damaged and broken in the sands of time,
Our suffering lies unsaid.
But it is for my opportunies that they
Have painfully bled.
With this I ask God to help me, every day,
As I humbly break my bread.
Next words: shine, above, smell.
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