Hold steady thy ears, that I grant thee a tale
Hardly tale, neither fiction nor story
Of a child in the woods, and a watering-pail
That held innocence bound in its glory.
Twas a love that had flourish'd in beauty and truth
In the winter of five-sixty-one
Of two lovers, adjoin'd in the crimson of youth
Where, in copulence, life would be spun.
While a miracle, bless'd are the young who abstain
From the pleasures of lovers combined
So her body was cloak'd from the eyes of the swain
That suspicion not tend to his mind.
For her lover, he knew, and he long'd for the touch
Of her bodily tissues to his
But too young to be father, and simple, as such
What a shame, our fertility is.
Though perhaps, were she built of more notable girth
T'would be less of an obvious ailing
Nay, she fled from her love to the ends of the earth
That he not catch her myst'ry in failing.
And he ran to the city, in passion'd pursuit
Thinking well what misfortune ail'd she,
But the buds of his search would bear nothing of fruit
What a sorrowful being, grew he.
And with sun ever-setting, and search ever-flaw'd
He collaps'd in a slump, in the street
At the tip of his breath, with a foot weary-trod
The young fellow admitted defeat.
Bitten cruelly by love, and with visions all tatter'd
He breathed, that he scream out her name
But so sweet to his ear, all the silence was shatter'd
When his was emitted, in same.
Coulds't thou see it thyself, thou woulds't faintly believe
With what vigor he shot to his stance
And perus'd all the street, on that shadowy eve
All with sureness awake in his glance.
Once arrived at the source, he advanced himself through
As the fruits of her illness were lifted
He look'd back to her eyes, in apology true
As "I love you" was utter'd, she drifted.
And it raptur'd the man, as those innocent eyes
Were cast backward, again ne'er to pain her
Still he could not return that last smile she surmis'd
With the shame that his lovings had slain her.
Were it not for the cries of the child they had bore
He'd have dropt, and sent cries of his own
But to look o'er the face of that beast of adore
Rest assur'd him, he'd ne'er be alone.
He declar'd to the gathering, "I claim this child"
With disdain and sincerity parch
So sincerely and sudden his mourning beguiled
He neglected the funeral march.
Without tears of regret, he brought homeward his son
To the cabin, for love he'd secured
And they grew there, for fourteen a merciless sun
For fourteen such sunlight obscured.
He the gath'rer of meat, and his son, that of water
Each task, they endeavour'd with joy
Fill'd with questions, the younger -- in laughter, his father
Declar'd him "inquisitive boy."
My dear reader, if I spoke of musings and tales
I'd be tempted gay endings, conclude -
But alas, were the story of watering-pails
I'd have nothing for ballads accrued.
It is sad, such a love amongst father and son
I decree to be precious and rare
And tis tragic, this innocence, scarcely begun
That a battle t'ween strangers did tear.
Up the hill t'wards the cabin, with water at side
And a smile of expectance at lip
On that day, he was welcom'd by furious pride
That, from treetop to treetop, did flip.
It was wond'rous to him, that his cabin lay sore
As though shatter'd, an object of bother
In a rush of those vandalous wagers of war
And an arrow had pierc'd through his father.
In the embers of what was once mellow and green
Lay his mentor, in mortal collapse
And he dropt all his water, and rush'd to the scene
'Fore his father, to darkness was laps'd.
There he knelt in a state of bewilderment, shock'd
All such tragedies, all but unknown
Like a child, he cradled his father, and rock'd
Him to lullaby, still as a stone.
And the man was reviv'd, for an instant of life
That he gaze 'pon the face of his child
He said once, "worry not, I will rest with my wife"
And submitting to darkness, he smiled.
Knowing well what was taught, most important to he
Was to love, and spread love as he could
That inquisitive boy, thinking promise to be
Then departed the smoldering wood.
Pressing forth, he abandon'd the flickering wild
And thought not of his grievings to grieve
T'was a gift to the world, this misfortunate child
That was born on that shadowy eve.
[This message has been edited by Local Parasite (12-15-2002 03:29 AM).]