by Yang Shen
A generation of cripples are we,
these lonely only’s without a home.
Dragged across the storming sea,
to and from the modern world's gloom.
Eyes wide upon our parents’ toils,
we stood helpless as they fell.
Rears in us a conflict within,
to control the lives of us and of all.
To conquer this world,
with our might, our wit, our will.
Succeed where our fathers failed,
reign where our mothers surrendered.
To sit arrogantly over the people that jeered us.
To look back proudly at the doubters.
To conceal this fear of rejection.
To cement our place in a world still foreign.
Yet, we crave the warmth
we've only glimpsed at.
For comfort of love, of contentment,
we strive to build the home
we were deprived.
To give our children that which we never had.
In the rush to our dreams,
we never saw the tear in our soul.
August 15, 2002