The little boy sat on the huge wooden box
Sat there watching the world go by
He was poor and scared; nothing to call his own
Except the wooden box, his flesh and his bone
Anxious amidst the plentiful crowd
In the busy town;
Forceful and loud

Time passes and people change,
The tiny lad to a young man
Still on the tanned range
The town has grown
People have moaned; but the boy
sees the same- a world too rich
And him too unhappy and poor

The scene shifts;nobody escapes time
The man with a long beard
and experienced sight watches;
on the old wooden box
He hasn't shifted
Nor has the box been lifted
As he watches the beauty of life

The box is now his deathbed
His tired, lonely eyes speak for themselves
His time has come, not too soon we can say
With all his might and deserving right
He opens his little antique home;
His only companion
And he sees a ray; his eyes ablaze
He was a fool, for all you know

His lifetime friend; the wooden box
Was filled to the brim
With what may he say
The glaze, the shine
The yellow culprit
His life flashed before his eyes
The sight sent him to heaven

The box; all through his pitiful life
Was sitting bold
Filled with good old gold!