On the baked earth was his birth
in a land richly blessed with hunger
where none boasts of a proud girth
and all quake spitefully in anger.
This is the child
whose every breath is a struggle
knowing no clime mild
to herald an innocent giggle.
His eyes are cast in swoon
accusing even the soft breeze
which unknowingly
plays a sad tune
as it caresses the starved trees
bearing nothing but desolation
to warm his isolation.

The lullaby of his birth
brought pleasures of pain to his hearth
reaping its' treasured silence
apart to the bones
voicing his broken tones
with vengeful violence
that stirred not even a frown
amongst his tribe grown.
His measure shows no hope
of telling his story
which would bring him glory
if he can cope
without a promise of bliss
betoken by a feathery kiss.

Suckled by a lifeless rag
from which his thirsting mouth
seeked only a drag
but was offered all but nought
who will give him love
hotter than a fiery stove
now that vultures cluster
him with coos of disaster.
What was his wicked crime
to be so conveniently forgotten
through out his allotted time
as he was not rotten
neither olden
but truly golden.