Back then when he rode in the saddle, 

And the world was just verdant fields, 

Rolling expanses and leaves of grass, 

A quick pat on the back meant speed, 

And travel. 

He praised those places like the aether, 

Growing up he scolded me for having fear, 

And patted those backs to make me speed, 

My movement arrested and then insinuated, 

By himself. 

Himself the forsaken master, 

Himself left alone on this planet’s crust, 

Himself forebade the ideal occupation, 

Himself reliving that time every night, 

When childhood was still lit, 

When the shadows stood curious and framed, 

By moving light upon the walls. 

Himself, even then, still half a child. 


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