A baby born but not a grudge he bares;
Whose blood so clean and pure like mountain spring,
Yet unblemished by scandals, love affairs,
And not a pinch of what sorrow could bring.
And deep in sleep too young to know of love
And ****, of crime was done because of shame.
Of shame of ****** moments that drove
To dump him cold ***** without a name.
He knows not now of being called outcast.
But hate would come and callous jibes would tear
His heart as he grows and knew his past.
Their wage of sin for decades he'll bear.
What Devine assignment on him seeing,
Like blissful saint in quiet contemplating.