Child's Soul

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?