‘Love me, child, be thankful.
No, that’s too radical, too ungrateful.
You are the flower of the motherland,
The youth, the hope!
Shush, we have given you enough.’
But beneath each lie that was rewarded with praise,
Lied a trial unheard, a story untold, a truth unspoken.
And in every crucified hour of motionless obedience,
A soul fluttered, and drowned.
How dare you then speak of love?
Image source: Pixabay
Dolores Xu 