Sunday, February 1, 2015


The trek west was Balthasar's first,
He seldom spoke, perhaps from thirst.
Caravanserais on the way
Made him homesick, inclined to pray.
Yet we knew trials waited ahead
And savoured small comforts instead.
Each night the sky was star studded
And in our hearts we each shuddered;
Doubting if real meaning was there,
Wondering if the world would care.
When we arrived we saw turmoil -
Babies' heads smashed by a royal.
Yet we found one safe from all harm
But set to flee beyond hate's arm.
We gifted him as was the quest
With this world's quaint style of bequest.
Turning for home and garden streams,
He haunted us in fitful dreams.
Even when we reached our home ground,
Memories made slumber unsound.
Now on death's bed life slips and sways,
I know those were my greatest days.

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