They Don't Know How to Cry
The children that has no hope if we don't help them. I was a teacher for children like these.
They sit at little desks
Staring at life through
Listless, bored eyes,
Their eyelids pulled down
From sleepless nights.
Breakfast, they didn't eat:
mother was still asleep
After a whoring night,
And father -
They hardly recognized the sound.
Thus they come day after day
Sitting at little desks,
In their eyes an empty-doom,
On their forehead melancholy burns
Their hair filthy, oil-slicked,
They don't even know
How to weep,
But in their pocket
They have
A gun -
Also a knife.
Staring at life through
Listless, bored eyes,
Their eyelids pulled down
From sleepless nights.
Breakfast, they didn't eat:
mother was still asleep
After a whoring night,
And father -
They hardly recognized the sound.
Thus they come day after day
Sitting at little desks,
In their eyes an empty-doom,
On their forehead melancholy burns
Their hair filthy, oil-slicked,
They don't even know
How to weep,
But in their pocket
They have
A gun -
Also a knife.
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