04-07-2017, 05:26 AM
I regret to inform you
that the sword your son once wielded
is now the stick by which he stands.
For the clouds no longer dance
like pirate sloops
in the open sea of sky.
His blood has slowed to syrup.
So, as I have flown
through the windows of children,
I now bring him back to you—
by way unbarred,
and by room now nursery pink.
Each milk tooth is placed
in a bag around his neck.
The fairies will trade childhood
for coin, and I will take
this sleeping bundle in return—
and not return till crocodile ticks
and walls are painted blue.
The Pan
that the sword your son once wielded
is now the stick by which he stands.
For the clouds no longer dance
like pirate sloops
in the open sea of sky.
His blood has slowed to syrup.
So, as I have flown
through the windows of children,
I now bring him back to you—
by way unbarred,
and by room now nursery pink.
Each milk tooth is placed
in a bag around his neck.
The fairies will trade childhood
for coin, and I will take
this sleeping bundle in return—
and not return till crocodile ticks
and walls are painted blue.
The Pan
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson