Holding bags of varied items
I stand in a street—thin.
Flea, but not free,
A place where dreams are sold for a fee.
Watching—negotiations of a lifetime,
Sweat and effort, all in a fading line.
A market where kindness is weighed,
And in return, greed is paid.
Humility and humanity are just low-quality commodities.
I stand in a street—thin.
Love has lost its chances;
It cannot win.
Hatred is the ruler,
Taxing your thick and thin.
It's different from the market of my idealism—
When my finger used to hold a hand,
Without fear and away from this nervous tree.
When letting your heart fly freely
Was an honored deal.
I stand in the market,
As a mannequin—useless,
Bought and sold in ways—pointless.
When will this trade of lives end,
And real shoppers return to sight?
I want to stand in a street—thin,
Flea and free,
Where love and art are traded in a harmonious deal.