Plagium

"There! See that lad beside the stall?"
The master pointed straight his riding quirt,
"The little lad with the home-made ball?"

I nodded, weary, standing slouched, inert.

"We'll make him ours before the day is done,"
I heard his lordship gloat, and wished myself away,
Remembering the day the plaga caught me as I tried to run.

No use to tell him what I thought - no use to even pray.

And so we lured the boy to see a novelty just up the street,
And cast our nets about him and rolled him in the dust
Into a rug and carried him out, bound hands and feet...

Another slave boy in the master's house who cries at dusk,

Missing home and mother's arms and small delights;
His homely past an awful ache, though low and poor,
A place of love and hope and soft, familial sights

My slaving Master Plagiarus ripped away forevermore.