The sculptor’s son he went away
To visit other lands
Upon their grasses he would lay
And walk upon their sands
The poor life is the path he chose
True richness bestowed on itself
From a rich garden grows a rose
Seeds adding to nature’s own wealth
To feed himself he forced his hands
New tunes for a whistle to sing
His mind it shouted out commands
Made him feel as though he were king
Though life at times was difficult
Goals were aimed at making it not
Opposed to wars that catapult
He saw greed tied in a loose knot
Belief the Lord was everywhere
Finding room in natures own face
Few words he used to say what’s there
Such choices were not his to place
His journey scribed into some books
Lost their way when dropped in the sea
A tale of how his father cooks
Mother’s heart was finally free
One day his heart did move inside
Voiced a whisper calling him home
Down the ladder he had to slide
The same path from whence he did roam
All possessions needed sell
Travel back while greeting old time
To see and hear and feel and tell
Stories missing part of the rhyme
At first there’ll be a warm embrace
Tears running atop a dry floor
Photos they will help him to trace
Eight hard years outside father’s door
The sculptor sculpted eighteen years
His son an additional eight
All were cleansed with warmest of tears
Two gypsies embraced at the gate.
Wall of Words 