#childrenpoetry
Dreamland Delights
In the land where whispers jest and play,
Guided by wisdom’s kindly crest.
Joyful frolics in the air,
Love’s glow shine, beyond compare,
Peaceful trance, our hearts at rest.
Gladness sings in merry refrain,
Escaping Worries, freeing from strain.
Strong bonds, like trees tall,
Passion sparks, inspiring all,
Imagination’s flight, a delightful train.
In this dreamy realm, colours bright,
Skies painted in day’s and night’s light.
Clouds shaped like creatures, grand and bold,
Rainbow flowers, a sight to behold,
Mythical beings, laughter taking flight.
Sensory treats, oh so sweet,
Giggling streams, under our feet.
Waft of cookies, freshly made,
Soft grass tickles, in our glade,
In this realm, where wonders greet.
Riding unicorns, up high we soar,
Caves of treasure, endless more.
Tea parties with beings, joy so bright,
Adventure, laughter, clear delight,
In an idyllic realm, let’s delve into.
Bliss of joy and wonder, always pour,
In this site where dreams come true.
No fear or worry, just smiles and cheer,
In this ground, let’s journey, my dear,
For in dreamland, skies are ever blue.
Dreamed up by, AN.
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 2:57 AM UTC
Children are not soft things
meant to be broken by history.
They are not collateral,
not footnotes in war reports,
not the silence after gunfire
when adults argue about borders.
A child is a country still learning its name.
They arrive holding light in their palms,
asking only for room to grow
but we hand them hunger,
teach them the grammar of fear,
enroll them early in survival.
Some learn the alphabet from bullets.
Others spell home with ash.
Look closely
the child carrying water is carrying a future.
The child hawking oranges
is negotiating with destiny.
The child sleeping under bridges
is dreaming in a language the world refuses to translate.
We say they are resilient
as if resilience were a gift,
not a wound stitched daily with courage.
A child should know lullabies,
not sirens.
Should inherit toys,
not trauma.
Should grow into questions,
not graves.
Yet still
they laugh.
Still
they imagine tomorrow with stubborn hope.
Still
they believe the world can be kinder
than the hands that raised it.
This is their quiet rebellion.
Do not tell me children are weak.
Tell me why the world is afraid
of what they might become
if allowed to live whole.
©️ Dibang Mary
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 10:58 PM UTC