The sketch of my son now done, though he neither fine nor free.
She peers 'quisitively over mine to pun and 'quire: "Woo, such a fire!
How is it, my Captain?" It is with tears milady. I didn't think
It would happen. Those burns on my hand have a lifelong span,
not worth my loved ones' dip in the sun. The photos of my dearest
hang on shattered walls, their lives lurking only within. The fires
I recall so tall and looming, dim my days to nights so slim.
She muttered: "'Tis the fault of thieves and men, so bitter of
your services against them." They set their flame to our land,
It whips its tips to eye's white my arm my final closest,
concealed by flashes: the blast had hurled me South back then.
Her eyes aglisten. "Must you take blame for warranted migration?"
-- Our train to a halt had come, both awaited and un- . She bid
adieu and tipped to her toes. But something's amiss: Her pupils in
subtle ocean perish and her legs left marked by a sordid scald.
My hand about her arm then wrapped tight. I pulled her near; she
slapped and I seized. I asked: Who might you truly be? She
whispered: "What, is it chivalry to forget a daughter?"