The feeble tenderness of a father,
sinless in his love, debt-ful in his becomings.

Nothing short of the wonders of a child,
Never batting an eye, never blinking away from the grasping hands,
nor the warm cuddles in the middle of any stranger afternoon.

Drained in the lowest of societies moral views,
drunk in the sullen sorrow that speaks of his choices,
none can judge the begrudging love of a man for his child,
for his tip-toeing daughter;
for his dirt-rolling son.

Tell the sinners they sin, tell the crooks they crook the worst.
Make the judges about their failures,
and the peers of the world,
their Devil's due.

No mercy for a man in love,
no mercy for the minutes of safety,
no mercy for the forgotten names of the dead,
no more for the missing pieces of a puzzle,
only a child can see in a father.