Creative Garden

The wind comes as a whistling current of air, Children and elders sitting in pairs, Talking about what is unfair, Some even like to scream without fear, Because inside here, We are not men, We are not mere, We are mortal Writing and being without fear. Our words carved from despair, Arts and crafts challenging what we cannot dare, In the garden, we do not care, We do not pledge We do not fear. In the garden, we are not men. We will repair We will be sincere.