No time for tears

No time for tears I will not hide. I am determined to keep my head above the parapet. I like to hear the sweet perfumes of spring whistling in my ears and to taste the scintillating scents of a brisk breeze seeping effortlessly into my thoughts. I enjoy the feel of an early sun rising high in the air to greet me. Do not expect me to cry for my supper. Because I will not. I might feign silence, but I will not fawn. I will not beg. Not even when indignities are heaped onto my path. I resolve to stand tall like flowers. Do not expect me to slink away, become wallpaper, and pretend that all is well. We know fully well that they are not. Nevertheless, I will mint courage from knowledge, knowing that contrived schemes do not flourish for long. They cannot prevail against warriors whose faith is steeled by soft chards of conviction. I plan to savour the conceit of dreamy daffodils, contemplate the improvised curiosity of hydrangeas, and listen to the soulful mettle of tulips. They speak deafeningly for the many voices being silenced. I will not cry for my supper. My thoughts are free. They are not for sale. The misty raindrops are my tears. They know my heart. It is enlightened by patience. It will not succumb to hunger. I will not cry for my supper. Because I am neither mendicant nor minion. The perennial vines of ambition are fed By the fortitude of my forefathers and foremothers. And so, although I come here alone, I stand in the company of the unseen crowds. Our courage is fuelled by sacrifice and promise. Our dreams are too powerful to play second-fiddle or become afterthoughts. Our feet follow their own paths, and chart their own course. I will not cry for my supper. I can always find my way home.