Until the boy was squeezed into a sack, bruised to death with
A heavy iron rod as the blood that draped his head
Was dropping from underneath the sack while the
Criminal behind this was walking fast and wearing a face
of guilt in a bold way.
As he was ambling through the side of the road, the heart of justice suddenly became unbroken
as he was challenged by a craftsman who noticed his culpable face
And the line following him, a line of blood
, so he replied that he was carrying a cow’s head, one which he bought
Just from the nearby butcher, so they let him go,
But the trader beside
The craftsman called him back and insisted that he opened the sack,
Hmm, it was a dead little boy forcefully crinkled into layers
With some of the rough, rusted irons dip inside him
In a narrow sack with lots of wasted iron placed on
His lifeless body
As a wee lad, my dad regaled me and my siblings with
Stories of sea anemones and the black geography of
A boy’s plea to listen to his father’s stories was short-lived,
A little boy crawled to their backyard while her mother was
Asleep on a local half swivel chair,
It was a mother’s mishap, the criminal was one of those men
Well know for moving around in the neighborhood
Picking metals, steels and irons into sacks and trawlers.
All happened here some weeks ago.
i know we cant undo the past,
but mothers and all would be mothers,
please be much more careful with the protection of your children,
evil men in every alcove and cranny.