The clouded glasses on the window,
they always have a story to tell,
of disillusioned thoughts, shabby dreams,
unformed patterns and blurry distant future.
The empty cups have tales they hide,
of people, their lives and the lips they touch.
Witnessing events that may have been important,
of few hurried whispers and silences.
These hands which clean the tables have nothing to say,
for they have been shackled for so long.
The scars on the arms are quiet as well,
tired of screaming behind the closed doors.
The eyes don't shed a tear anymore, longing to see someone familiar,
The ears don't pine to hear the name, his mother used to call.
How long has it been he doesn't remember?
Was it yesterday or has it been a hundred years.
The books are lost, so are the dreams.
The promises made to his family to keep him well,
are broken along with his will and soul.
He is just a tea-boy, a prisoner of fate,
neglected like those window panes,
broken like those cups.
He is just the tea-boy lost among the crowd of others just like him.
