BALLAD ABOUT YOUTH 

They flanged and partied with seventy yuppies. Their blessed, holy-virginity, saved for their first woman-night, soon died away. Their purity, like a spotless virtue, was dusted and smeared. Fallen teen-age mothers, young ladies, you shed your true pearls of hyacinth flowers in a shower of rain when the blessing seemed to be fulfilled on you - in the island of incubators, you cried for helpers who gave, and the infant-smelling helplessness.

For rather temptingly took joy to graze in light-twisting malls, multiplex centres, dazzling ballroom windows - your desperate instinct-motherhoods screaming despair, stopping in alarm and easily attempting a mating flip for rash abortions. In second-hand nappy-cradles near churches, the shivering cribs of orphaned babies doomed to helplessness quiver.

I would call you as a halo with the age of the angels of peace - your restless, broken hearts are daily haunted by responsibility and just guilt: somewhere in a land far away, a little child is shedding its giving, selfless pearls of truth for you!

The outcast youth wastes away with you, wingless, scarred, because as young men you did not think of the torturous grip of tomorrow, because you were wasted exotic-bombers - and just as unhappy! Her ashen, bronze-brown skin is scythed in blood-sacrificially in two; she is forced to bear the stigma of crater-scar when help arrives.