Beautiful Slave

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jYU9meVXKg

I don’t know where I am
They’ve taken all that I had
smuggled in for a lucrative trade
beaten, bartered
broken in, until I obey
I used to be childlike
innocent and safe
now I’m someone Else's treasure
a stranger's pleasure
smothered in shame
succumbed with drugs
but I’m not numb
all I feel is pain
is this all a dream
will I ever be the same?

can anyone hear me?
will anyone break these chains?
who will free me?
from this dark place?
does God see me?
what is His name?
will He help me?
I’m just a beautiful slave
my worst fear is my fate
I’m getting older each day
every girl too old in years
mysteriously just disappears
they never mention her name
they take away piece by piece
I don’t think I have any left
I’ve slowly given up all hope
given in to this sleepless bed
inside these bars
I feel so seared
by each new face
how could this ever be
every memory be erased?
He can hear you
He’s seeking you,
He wants to heal you
Jesus knows the real you
Jesus Loves The Little Children
All The Children Of World
Red and Yellow, Black and White
They’re Precious In His Sight
Jesus Loves The Little Children Of The World
He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands
27 MILLION PEOPLE ARE ENSLAVED TODAY
80% ARE WOMEN 50% ARE CHILDREN
EVERY MINUTE TWO CHILDREN ARE TRAFFICKED…
…FOR SEXUAL EXPLOITATION
TOGETHER WE CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
“The Oppressed Will Be Set Free.” –Jesus Christ
Please share this music freely with others.
Use it as a tool to stop this injustice.

Mother

Something pulls at my sleeve--
 in the middle of the night--
 like a tide-- pulling me to shore--
 I rise out of bed and hug--
my mother's absence--
I place a record on her old victrola--
and watch my face spinning around--
 I am a happy child again--
on a merry go round--
The old needle catches--
a strand of her hair she left there--
dragging it around and around--
pretending to be a wounded bird--
 trying to rebuild a nest.

The Postman

The postman you had befriended
Gathers dry leaves now and
Sings an unfamiliar tune to himself

I’m looking for sustenance in end-rhymes
I’ve bought sleep, a broken moon, wicker chairs
Wondering how long it will be to tranquility

The lake whose shores you used to wander on
Is as dry as a stone which I’ve put in a ring
In the worthless hope that my luck will turn

Colour-coordinated scraps of flattery in the morning
Solitary walks in the afternoon… How will I
Write you letters in my language anymore

The city air is a bilious green, the trees, poisonous
I refer to writing as a bad habit now
Breaking old glass panes with new pebbles

Only an enchanted madman, lazy, gaunt
Gathering dry leaves all day
The postman you had befriended

~ PABLO AND THE POSTMAN
(After watching Il Postino)