When the thorns were picked
From the paths we trod
And we had no shoes to fill,
When the wind and light
Were slaves to our fancy
And our dreams were ours to kill;
Love and beauty were petty farces
Reserved for merry fables
And pain was but the pithy realm
Of toes stubbed on tables
When death was a quaint oddity
(We were born immortal
And made our plans hence)
It all had purpose, colour and sound
And the grass was always greenest
On our side of the fence.
The rapt hours we spent
Lost in a firefly’s blinking mystique
The outcasts we laughed with
Without censure or critique
Splendid dreams of night
Earnest dreams of day;
Have all our childish fancies
Fallen by the way?
Our forever dissolved so quickly
Our never came so soon;
When was it that we stopped looking
For the witch flying past the moon?
Beautiful. I remember long summer days spent reading my grandpa's novel collection, and plenty of evenings spent with my brother playing innovated games...
ReplyDeleteWhy thank you, fugitive...you haven't been writing much lately?
ReplyDelete