Their little feet slap the concrete, carrying only the shirts on their backs, the little bright shorts and frilly skirts painted in pastels and sparkles. They chase each other in circles, fits of giggles and cheers and laughter spilling out of their bright smiles.
They carry the light blanket of humidity as capes in this game of superheroes, flying around the meadow, disturbing little insects hiding under umbrellas of grass. The bits of gravel stuck in their soles gets taken along in this rugged affair, involuntarily thrown about as feet pitter patter, lifting up and pounding the soil.
They carry the gaze of their parents who trace their game with steady eyes, careful and on the lookout for their precious children, who only look forward to their friends as they run at full speeds away from...
The children carry the good wishes of their parents. The hopes, dreams, expectations. They carry them in invisible bundles as everyone looks on, biting their finger nails, waiting worried and anxious for these carefree children to grow up and accomplish the future.
They carry these too; this worry, this fear, this nostalgia for the past, this hatred for the present, this wish for greater times, this wish for older times, this wish for better times, this wish for...
Their little feet slap the concrete, carrying only the shirts on their backs, the little bright shorts and frilly skirts painted in pastels and sparkles.
They chase each other in circles, fits of giggles and cheers and laughter spilling out of their bright smiles. These little kids, they feel no burden.
They feel only the soft breeze pushing and pulling their stray hairs into their faces, tickling them. They feel their little beads of sweat trickling down their chin.
They feel not the load they carry. The problems of the past, present and future.
They feel not the demand for perfection, for better, better, best.
They feel not the metal rods lined up behind their backs, held up by past generations, ready to prod and pounce on them for failing them before they have even fallen.
They feel not the environment's call for help, or the cries of the oppressed and discriminated.
They do not feel the extent of the burden they carry, or the knowledge of how short a time they have left to chase each other in fits of laughter, to roll about in the dewy grass before their parent's stern stares morph into glares; and bright shorts and skirts are replaced for longer ones, duller ones, or worse- for uniforms; and shoes forced onto feet because society says so and danger lies in all directions, so you cannot just look ahead.
The things they carry is not the same of those of the past, but the weight with the acceleration of 9.81 m s^2 downwards towards the Earth is the same. Each generation will carry a different load, but the weight of the load nonetheless will be equal, or more to those of the past, and will be looked upon with the same severity by everyone as they bite their nails in anticipation and wait.
For these little chasing children to stop being silly little chasing children.
For them to haul their bundles and carry them and drag on.