Ever quiet it is in this smoke grey town.
There the rascals run through the alleys and on their faces, a frown.
And there patrol the widows around the cracked stone square.
A faint echo comes from the alleys, full of despair.
Stroll to the playground where as weeds have taken control,
and there sits a child that is quiet and null.
An army of tears run down that solemn face
as he longs for the warmth of a mother’s embrace.
And so he fades into a wavering cloud of dust
and leaves behind nothing but a smoky gust.
But what else is to come from an empty shell?
Such a lonely fate you can not dispel.
Yet the town still exists without that child.
Appearing so clearly primitive and wild.
A shadow not cast from any specific object
but the omniscient part of a larger project.
A man in ragged clothing walks in to the town
with nothing on his but a frown.
Just some wrinkled skin and lips on his head.
There are no eyes, ears, nose, or hair on that spread.
For he is the creator of the sadness we feel.
So he is the one who can never conceal.
Though this is true, it seemed he liberated them all.
The sadness came to him like leaves to the ground in the Fall.
The town became bright again with color and light.
For a long time the happy folk did not need to fight.
Yet sadness always finds a way to devour the mood,
so that town once again became the succulent food
of ever persisting and primordial darkness.
Until once again that man could take onto him,
never ending sadness.