January 11, 2012


Around the many places
That recklessness is born,
A Phantom comes a warning,
Night becomes morn.

To us this seems the same
New meaning unfound,
We always wake up dreaming,
About what is sound.

And so there was a little boy
Whom everyone had hated,
He had such little hands,
He never could have made it.

The people all around him,
From his neighbours to his parents,
Regretted he lived among them,
And wanted him to perish.

But he was determined,
Determined to free the doves,
For most of his life,
He only wanted to be loved.

Chances after chances,
It seemed he always failed,
The work he had to tend to,
Was easier for the lame.

But his little hands were hard on him,
With which he was born,
He sweated and he panted,
As he peeled the corn.

Every morning he’d wake up,
To his mother’s wake up call,
“Get up, buffoon, and get to work!”
And he would run along.

The fields were never-ending,
The grass was oh! so tall,
It needed a cutting,
But his hands were small.

He couldn’t write,
Never could he draw,
But he could eat,
And collect the straws.

But when his neighbour’s girl complained,
Of ‘that eerie little boy’
The land lord had come a running,
And fired him off his joy.

So now his work of peeling corns,
And working all the night,
Took away his sleep and health,
But gave him swollen eyes.

One night when his neighbours,
Called his parents for a ball,
He wasn’t invited,
No one cared at all.

So while his parents were away,
He crept into the fields,
He ran and ran as fast he could,
Till he felt he was free.

But his freedom came to a halt,
For he heard people screaming,
He ran and ran as fast he could,
Back from where he was leaving.

He followed the screams and tread along,
As fast as he could,
For his hands were small but his feet were not,
His speed was more than good.

The people never noticed,
This little boy’s speed,
For his hands were a distraction,
They never seemed pleased.

But tonight was different,
The moon was brighter,
The little boy approached,
He ran, and he ran faster.

And as soon as he reached,
For what called him back,
He saw many people,
And they were trapped.

Someone had lit a cigarette
And thrown it on the cloth,
That had caught fire,
And had trapped them all.

The door was jammed,
As the wall had fallen,
Just one way out,
What trouble they all had gotten.

The one way out,
Had a small hole,
To get to the latch,
And go back home.

But all of the people,
That were trapped,
There wasn’t even one,
With small little hands.

But the little boy
Came closer to the scene,
Saw the hole in the door,
And made it clean:

“I have come, to save you all,
Your hands are too big, but mine are small.
That hole is too little, for anyone of you
What I dreaded all my life, will be of use”

Saying this,
He made a run.
The people gaped
Like he was their son.

He put his small hand
Through the hole,
It fit like a key,
He opened the door.

Panicked and in terror,
The people rushed outside,
They held up the little boy,
And threw him towards the sky.

Putting him aground,
One by one,
They came to him,
And they sung.

The songs they sang,
Were of forgiveness,
Thanking him,
For his selfless kindness.

When they were finished,
He stood on a tree,
He let go of his parents
And asked to speak:

“All my life, I slept late
I lost my job, I felt pain.
Never did I have friends, but only foes,
I always wanted love, and nothing more”

Saying this,
He went back home,
Waking to a change longing for,
And one he would never mourn.

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