This poem is based on an abstract yet relevant aspect of our lives. |
Far on the misty deserted street, The street lights were dimly lit, And Darkness on his sleeping children Pulled on a heavy quilt. 'Let them sleep, the poor souls he thought', he thought And even thought the Stranger On the misty deserted street, 'Did anyone know that Darkness ever breathed?' A strange stranger the Stranger was Walking through the mist. For who ever so strange? That knew the sorrows of the world With none of its members amiss. The Stranger knew the sorrows of Darkness And how he was shunned for the mighty sun. When his children found solace in him But still they sought the sun. Yet he calls them 'sweet children of mine', And draws the quilt over them When the clock does chime. He knew in him they were born To him they will return, And so he kept quiet. And Drakness whispered this sad tale To the Stranger walking in the misty night. Then the breeze breezed through, Telling another sad tale, Of a little birdie on a tree, forlorn and free. She had been left by her mate, Because of something she had said, She wished she hadn't said it But he had flown away. She flew to him But he asked her to stay. He flew away alone, He flew faraway. And then the little birdie fell on the clay. She had let herself fall, She had not used her wings, She had not made a sound. The little birdie had died And all the Stranger did was smile. And now you all wonder Why the Stranger was there? Because he relays to God This world's sad affairs. God sometimes listened, sometimes did not. For He had created man, The bigest mistake He had made When He formed the world's plan. The Stranger never thanked God But today he prepared his vote of thanks. Clearing his throat, he said: 'Thank you God, I am not in your world Thank you I am not dying". |