Child In The Cage

Child In The Cage
© Surazeus
2018 06 25

The child in the cage cries out for their mother
and though three hundred million people hear
the shriek of their fear tear the atmosphere
no one arrives to take them to their mother.

The child in the cage clings to golden bars
and calls without words for the face they dream
hidden now somewhere beyond the blind stars
since no one arrives to soothe their stark scream.

The child in the cage cries out the strange name
of the stranger they once knew as their mother
whose face fades blank into the emptiness
of the ghost who haunts their footsteps forever.

The child in the cage calls out to the statue
of Liberty for help, for her flame glows
to light the way of refugees to heaven,
but the statue stands and stares blankly nowhere.

The child in the cage stares into my heart
where shadows of illusions of the truth
flash in the cave of moral obligation,
so I march city streets to free the child.

The child in the cage waits still there forever,
growing old as the world in mute despair,
and tries to sing the sorrow of the blues
that no one ever hears on the radio.

The child in the cage shouts at broken mirror
of the television that reveals the truth,
then assembles the puzzle of the future
from laws of decency that we forgot.

The child in the cage looks into our eyes,
asking us to show them the way back home,
so we run shouting through the labyrinth
to save them from the sacrificial knife.

The child in the cage runs through maze of lies,
unspooling tangled thread of Ariadne,
but they wander lost past legends of gods
while men sell them to families for adoption.

The child in the cage will remember you
who locked them in the maze of money greed
though you forget their faces without names
while you pray to your God in church of glass.

The child in the cage creates wings of hope
and leaps off the burning tower of your pride
to follow swift Icarus to Elysium
but they fall crippled to the desert sand.

The child in the cage cries out for their mother
who wanders in their war-torn land alone
and though we listen with a heart of stone
we all think about our own weeping mother.