Once upon the olden days there was a deceitful matron. She'd an eye out for a little lass who had an alley as his hearth and home. She selfishly wanted him – so she came and conquered, took him to her dwellings, gave him refuge in the midst of a minefield.
It took no longer than 'til the latest hours when he already strayed away on his own, not knowing she’d awoken. The poor boy lost himself deep into the waking night with the north star as his sole companion. And yet, even the starlight shied away at the woman who wished to not let him go. She plagued him as he wept, "I beg of you, have mercy on this meager child.” I heard a hollow laughter and a miserable cry, witnessed her steal an arm to keep a part of the boy by her side.
At last the matron let him flee, supposed he'd evermore be a flightless bird. Still, as the night gave away and the sun rose in the east, he got up on his feet and prevailed in spite of all his misery.
He was free and lone, having fought a losing battle. He went against the odds and lived to see another day, wandered toward newfound glory, fortune and prosper.
So even that little boy thrived – knowing, remembering, celebrating, mourning. And only because he knew and could remember, in the end there was more laughter than there had been sorrow in the night.
