He went
tender into his death, a midlife death,
Old age should have burnt him out, yet it
didn’t!
It was love, love, against the trying of
days.
And there he sat idle, father to child, a
sad plight,
Sorrow against the thriving of the coming
darkness.
Trying and cursed with tears nonetheless,
he prayed.
His words forked, burned and raved against
death,
For his infant, as if to grieve it on its
way—
From the dying of light, he pulled at
darkness:
His life given instead, at the last
upsurge and billow
A prayer answered perhaps, for a dying
infant!
A life agreed, for a life taken, in less
than a breath.
No: 4744/ April 1,
2015
