Where the ochre of dusk kisses the horizon,
Where the scarlet of blood leaves behind trails,
Where the grey of dust smogs above the rubble,
Rests a content orphan mutilated by war,
In his eternal sleep.
Where the wall of portraits poses proud a witness,
Where the shelf of books prisons a beloved diary,
Where the bin of waste smokes with burnt letters of love,
Rests a broken damsel torn by betrayal,
On a pillow wet with tears.
A few fathoms away,
Where the green of suburbs mocks the city of splendour,
Where the thatch of roofs overlooks the wooden stoves,
Where the hunger of eyes satisfies itself with morsels,
Rests a weary mason struggling to survive,
On a floor freezing cold with winter.
Where the seeds of dormancy give way to saplings of emotion,
Where the fairies of yore build castles of attractive imperfections,
Where the mistletoe of beauty houses my swooning heart,
Rests my incomplete Elysium forged with love,
On a garden littered with flowers of hope.
Can we all build a Elysium, together hand-in-hand? If we could it would be the most beautiful place that ever existed.