Here, in the land of illusions
where time is no longer measured by mere seconds,
but by the number of relentless waves crashing on the shore,
a child calls for help.
His voice is muffled by the swing of the necklaces;
the clicking of the jewels;
the shine of the artistry.
Things that cannot be overlooked overshadow the things that must not be.
Sun burns the skin of the fragile child, the sand singes the pads of his feet.
But the sting of the smile of the blissfully ignorant decimate his very soul.
His only hope lies in the shade of a single blue umbrella perched in the sand, listening to the ticking of the ocean.
There, another child sits and quietly weeps to her mother
of the injustices she cannot change.
Her tears, like the toys of the merchant child,
are a cry for help,
hoping to harmonize with the songs of the helpless,
that someone may hear
and give the child a quarter.