I call on my friend, and stop by his house
Upon their boy’s untimely death. Alas,
there, at noon, a child, softly as a mouse,
moves sickly and with a pallor of glass.
The child draws no attention from my friends
as he enters an empty room and paws
at the floor, scraping, scratching nails. It ends,
when the boy leaves the room from which he claws.
The scene repeats for days, noon after noon.
I ask my friends “Whose child this boy may be?”
They ask “In the room where he died too soon?”
Unstartled, they say “Ti’s our boy Fedde
We dig and find hidden under the floor
Farthings given to him meant for the poor.Recommended1 Simily SnapPublished in