Saturday, June 2, 2012

Leave it to the lark

Where does your song come from, child,
From hills distant with rails you climb,
Where sun whispers songs of winters mild
Or reverent shades with treasures hind
Inside the parallel temple of innocent mind?

No, your song cracks granites with crusting ice
Of pain and want, sorrow that can’t be gained
The webs of time strangle dreams with thoughts of vice
And the  child sings itself through ages of pain
When innocence can be tempered and violence tamed

Behind the faced of nursery rimes, we hide our hate
Songs sung dubiously hidden in our heart
We forget that we as children, too, bore that rage
But growing we learn that pain and anger depart
When children leave the sad song innocent to the lark.

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