Leave it to the lark

 

Where does your song come from, child,

From hills distant with rails you climb,

Where sun whispers songs of winters mild

Or reverent shades with treasures hind

Inside the parallel temple of innocent mind?

 

No, your song cracks granites with crusting ice

Of pain and want, sorrow that can’t be gained

The webs of time strangle dreams with thoughts of vice

And the  child sings itself through ages of pain

When innocence can be tempered and violence tamed

 

Behind the faced of nursery rimes, we hide our hate

Songs sung dubiously hidden in our heart

We forget that we as children, too, bore that rage

But growing we learn that pain and anger depart

When children leave the sad song innocent to the lark.