How you keep up with a kite runner
when everybody takes a scunner
against the man you try to help,
no one want to hear his yelp!
No strength or muscles to match his saults,
only pointing fingers and evictions notes,
no flying skills or cushion for rough landings,
just hard liquor and misunderstandings!
No stamina to run this obstacles course,
your will to help can't match the costs,
an endless sea of pain and remorse,
from the east to the west coasts.
His love for heights, the fluffiness of the clouds,
the peaceful look upon his face
while struggling to win this mad mad race,
conceal the depths of his abyss.
Against the odds he found himself
from birth till twelve and later on,
the gods never favoured him;
a human's life, flesh and bones left to decay.
The blueish scars around his wrists,
the darkened eyes and swollen fists
tell more about his older days
than he could ever say.
Each line cut into his flesh,
a failed attempt to tear the mesh
that wired him to a dreadful place,
got him more deeper into the maze.
A lost warrior with no appetite for blood,
a sack of bones wearing dirty rags
and army boots, all covered in mud;
his only possession: two silver tags.
Day after day he flies up high,
he lives his life up into the sky,
hands on the thread, eyes on the kite,
unable to tell wrong from right, day from night.
On the corner of Peel and Notre-Dame
he resides with his bud and a cup;
some throw him a coin and call him a bum,
others ignore him and only see the pup.
He doesn't mind cause up high on his cloud
he sees the world differently, no doubt;
less sound, shades or judgemental parades,
hate, greed, shame, everything fades.
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