To none and to all, a poor teen scholar pours out his mind.
|I like my books. I love to think.|
Like desert sands, my tongue is dry.
Teachers, thoughts, tomes hold the sought drink,
But lack of coins make me to cry.
Hunger mocks thin boys bearing books,
And makes them choose to eat or die.
Don’t judge a pauper by his looks;
Drought makes their foresight make them sigh.
Drugs make one dream and smile and sleep,
And lifts no straw from one’s problem;
Sometimes the rest could get too deep,
Giving birth to deaths folks condemn.
Whom have you killed, airy audience?
Small words and deeds that seem harmless,
Or that are each a planned offense,
Can make a tired man to transgress.