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When the Angels Cry in Heaven

Updated on March 14, 2015

It is a turbulent night; the wind blows softly, tantalizing a tattered muslin drape canopying the gape in a caved in mud wall. A futile effort, to conceal the dismal side of life. An effeminate shadow arches cautiously over the dim halo of light, emerging from a candle thawing in vain. Her eyes two chasms of dreams deplored and tears depleted, now devoid of hope that stare longingly, into the darkness of the night.

Forever in solemnity a mother awaits, as the monolithic moonlight filters through the rags to flaunt the blight befalling her sanctuary. The ceremonial ache, that grows with each hour.

Source

On the other side of the tear drenched drape, prevails the leviathan world of labor that devours each soul resigned to drudgery. Amongst its preys is a lonesome figure that silently strolls down the lanes; amidst the toil of sadistic winds with obsidian eyes roaming through the streets of despair. His steps still small owing to the order of his years but his soul having completed most journeys known. His heart still naïve to breed hope each day to be slaughtered in the hours of the nebulous nights.

Source

He looks at the moon through the ash blown silhouettes of colorless dreams, and imagines a placement unknown to woe. His tiny hands gather the marbles of fate, struck at the globules of sweet naiveté, of utopian wonders and elysian slumbers; falling apart at the brink of reality.

A tear falls upon a smile; a silence is merged with a thousand screams.

The night shudders as a long lost thought sent into wilderness. A passion dismissed, a figment obscured. A mother beholding a candle alight, flickering at the zenith of her dissonant world.

“My lonesome child, my naïve angel. Part of my flesh and more of my soul. I wait midst of the nomadic seasons, underneath the skies that wail for my eyes. My womb has a vice and my heart has sinned, and yet I sin each noon and rise as I lay the burden of life on your shoulders. My fragile child, your lissome steps that voyage through life, have only covered the miles in circles. Paths that wind in mere orbits… with no beginnings and no ends. I watch your pace recede with each stunted step, and allow your soul to decay with every tender heave of breath.”

Source

Concealed in a corner of the gutted house, a little girl stares at the cascade of moonlight stealthily dispersing through the broken glass prisms. She looks beyond the chimerical scheme of the world she knows, behind the tattered muslin rag. She pulls a doll from her small assemblage, with a face so fair and hair so sleek. Tears fill her eyes and roll down to quench the parched pallor in her cheeks.

“When you grow up, you will be a princess. The sun will shine upon your snow white skin and butterflies would flutter, hither and tither… as flowers will bloom in your silken hair.”

She hears his voice and feels his tiny fingers stroke her gristly hair. Nestled in a cache, his whispers of promise would echo in silence.

“Play with me brother.” She would carelessly whisper, and a pall of despondency would overcome his heart.

“I leave before you rise and return while you sleep, as I work hard to make you a princess one day. Play with the doll I brought you from town, for I can see no mirth nor play in my days.”

She clung to the doll as she drowned in the whirl of her unversed reverie.

He perched at the brink of the labyrinthine lanes as his eyes surmised the galactic display of stars in the sky, a sight more familiar than the moldering roof of his abode. His satchel slides off the mauled limbs, as his frail body slumps to the unyielding ground. His quivering hands rummage in the darkness to reclaim his tools of livelihood, but the darkness only grows and so does a calmness, formerly unknown to his ailing heart. His body lies in repose while his eyes behold a cluster of shadows drifting across the ripples of haze, to depart from the moonlit tragedy of the world. He feels a nectarous breeze revive his senses, soothing as the warmth of his mother’s lap. His heart grows wings and ascends with the winds.

A draft blows through the muslin rag and stifles the ebbed candle.

A flickering flame; seldom rekindles.

Source


Almost 250 million children, about one in every six children aged 5 to 17 on the face of the globe, are involved in child labour. Of these, some 179 million (one in eight) are trapped in the “worst forms” of child labour. The worst form are those that endanger the child’s physical, mental or moral well-being - WHO

© 2015 Sara Sarwar Riaz

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    • Sara Sarwar Riaz profile imageAUTHOR

      Sara Sarwar Riaz 

      3 years ago from Michigan, USA

      Thank you for stopping by Venkatachari M, and providing your valuable input. I am so glad that you found this piece affectively narrated. Much gratitude for the appreciation.

    • Sara Sarwar Riaz profile imageAUTHOR

      Sara Sarwar Riaz 

      3 years ago from Michigan, USA

      Thank you for the continued support Smilealot. I agree this piece reflects hopelessness and dismay, but such is the vicious cycle of child labor. There are no easy tangential exits for victims of such formidable situations. And I had wanted to emphasize the helplessness of all involved in it. So glad I was able to successfully convey the message. Thank you for your kind words of appreciation.

    • Sara Sarwar Riaz profile imageAUTHOR

      Sara Sarwar Riaz 

      3 years ago from Michigan, USA

      Thank you for the insightful comment Frank. I must admit, I haven't tired my hand at flash fiction but you have definitely sown the seed in my mind :) I have always considered my pen vastly descriptive, finding it hard to abide by word constraints. But I would love to try my hand at it sometime. Thank you for the visit and your kind words.

    • Sara Sarwar Riaz profile imageAUTHOR

      Sara Sarwar Riaz 

      3 years ago from Michigan, USA

      Thank you so much for your appreciation and support, Jodah. This is probably the best comment I could have ever received… for my work to be read twice for reasons you had kindly elaborated. I am so glad that you enjoyed reading this piece. Child labor remains a demon of all times, that will require continued efforts over the years. Raising awareness via our inscriptions is just one form of the efforts geared in that direction.

    • Venkatachari M profile image

      Venkatachari M 

      3 years ago from Hyderabad, India

      Awesome work, Sara! Such a great narration of the scenery that is most appealing to the senses. It touches our hearts and makes us throb helplessly. Thanks for sharing it.

      Voted up and awesome.

    • Sara Sarwar Riaz profile imageAUTHOR

      Sara Sarwar Riaz 

      3 years ago from Michigan, USA

      Thank you Bill for your words of appreciation. You are way too kind. I am glad I was able to deliver the message meaningfully. You are source of inspiration for every writer on this forum. So glad to be learning to spread my wings to fly...

    • Sara Sarwar Riaz profile imageAUTHOR

      Sara Sarwar Riaz 

      3 years ago from Michigan, USA

      Thank you so much for stopping by Ruby and providing your valuable input. I appreciate your insightful comment. Unfortunately, child labor is a harsh reality that has no easy solutions. Coming from a country with a high prevalence of such form of abuse, I have always felt very deeply about it. We can only continue to play our part in trying to break this vicious cycle, and hope for a better future for the children in the world.

    • profile image

      Smilealot 

      3 years ago

      A beautifully written piece, although laced with great sadness and absence of hope. Just to repeat what Jodah has said, two readings are necessary, one to appreciate the skilfully placed words, and again to reflect upon the message contained within the words. Voted up and awesome:-))

    • Frank Atanacio profile image

      Frank Atanacio 

      3 years ago from Shelton

      He perched at the brink of the labyrinthine lanes as his eyes surmised the galactic display of stars in the sky... so haunting, rivieting and driving.. you would make a great flash -writer.. the topic is so draining.. this is indeed worth the drain

    • Jodah profile image

      John Hansen 

      3 years ago from Queensland Australia

      Sara, I keep saying it, but I am astounded by your skillful and beautiful use of words. This whole piece is a masterpiece but just one example is this paragraph: "He looks at the moon through the ash blown silhouettes of colorless dreams, and imagines a placement unknown to woe. His tiny hands gather the marbles of fate, struck at the globules of sweet naiveté, of utopian wonders and elysian slumbers; falling apart at the brink of reality." You are a true wordsmith. The first time I read this I just admire your phrasing, descriptions and use of words to the ultimate purpose. The second time is to enjoy the story and message within. Child labour is still so prevalent in third world countries and many of the worlds biggest companies are guilty of utilizing it.

    • billybuc profile image

      Bill Holland 

      3 years ago from Olympia, WA

      I hope you realize just how good you are at this writing gig. Beautiful, and the message was delivered with force and emotion. Lovely, powerful, meaningful work, Sara!

    • always exploring profile image

      Ruby Jean Richert 

      3 years ago from Southern Illinois

      Your poetry is like no other. I am mesmerized while reading your words. The boy child was so very visual as was the little girl. Child labor, how can it be stopped? Beautiful poetry!

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