There beneath the oak tree lay
The child, sleeping, in his grave.
An angel watching from above
His mother, weeping, torn by love.
A flower laid upon his chest
A father lays his son to rest.
The grave is short though shallow not
The body small, the lesson taught.
Callused hands begin to cover
Life's creation forged by lovers.
Gentle rain of shovelled dirt
Returns my child to the earth.
Slowly fills the spirit broken
Hardened by a pain unspoken.
I leave you now to let you sleep
Beneath the oak your mother weeps.
Her heart is empty, mine turned to stone
I walk away to be alone.
The souls of children smaller than
The souls of older, wiser men?