A Search Beyond Truth

A Silent Night

Tranquil disasters and some morning glory,
A leaf grew tired and died,
But he looked on and past, he pondered,
What is it, what is it, my child?
The trembling mother too vary of her sins,
Cried and bled in an empty theatre,
A drop rolled down and a maddening howl,
A martyred end or a disgraced life.

A box of Swiss chocolates,
And a bottle of fine red,
An evening of promise,
An eternity of hope,
Nothing remained, but the pain,
Just the pain,
Two mouths, two hearts,
And one soul.

He looked at it one last time,
Ready to hurl it through the window,
The son of a whore, a peasant, a black,
To keep it would be madness, a sin and more.
Just a speck of dirt, in his human heart,
Had kept the boy alive that day,
The mother's burning pyre, and her only desire,
That her child should ever dare to smile.

Nine months in the streets,
Another four in the ghetto,
A princess, a pauper,
She had seen it all.
Just one thing remained,
For the child to gain his home,
Then she could move on,
And maybe then would it end.

Drowned out screams of the ashless effigy,
Never reached the ears of her happy son.
His mother's sins, washed away by time,
The empty shadow, replaced by a ticking bomb.
The opulent He, drank more and more wine,
To suck out the visions of his mind,
The only thing he said, in his last few days,
"Pyre, Pyre, please not the pyre".