A Merchant of Flowers, A Flower No Less

Every time I see that child,
unfortunate and chided though,
walking on with a step so mild,
as if the last was the only low,
and all to come are only great,
but all I see is unsound hope,
all I hear is a hopeful gait,
and all I feel is a fateful rope
that pulls to tell him now and then,
exceeds the grasp of foolish men,
from all that they are worthy of.
But, still that child does only scoff,
“Flowers for a coin, Kindly Sir,
I have not eaten since yesterday”.
How these words within me stir,
the tears I held for a tragic play,
is not this child just like mine?
although behind the veil of pain,
his eyes may not as gayly shine
and sorrow is all that does remain.
But why must a flower sell flowers more,
and wilt when it must only bloom?
why must his visage yearn the fore
and aft of the sun that always looms?
Why does this child sell his fate
to live a life of bleak prospects,
if only he were born of late
or somewhere else in some respect,
he would not have to run barefooted,
to chase his dreams flying fast,
he would not have to face the cold,
and warm to the memory of summers past.
My child! Give me all those flowers,
and here is a penny more,
do not pray or give me thanks
I am no less a scoundrel sore,
for when I shall roll my window up,
and see my own blood next to me,
his innocent face my hands will cup,
and the wheels of misfortune you will see.
For all the flowers in the world,
and all their vendors sweet and lost,
can not fathom why some are hurled
cruelly into a destiny accost.
I see this child in my rearview,
his face lit with a vigor new,
if only he could know how true
the mother of fate for him did rue.

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