Seven Hundred Thousand Hours

One morning in time, a morning in space, there shone a brilliant sun it seems.

Its warmth projecting autumn gold,

Turned summer newness into old,

With small-town tales so often told

With small-town tales so often told, that little room was left for dreams.

The child arrives, the child awakens, there lies a special son it seems.

With blue of eyes and black of hair,

Stature stout and skin still fair,

Without a worry, nor a care,

Without a worry, nor a care, nor abstract thoughts, no hidden themes.

Words emerge, and numbers dance, in books with lines on pages drawn.

And thoughts of others fill his head,

Words of authors to be read,

Novel creations replaced instead,

Novel creations replaced instead, by song and dance of poets gone.

He grows like others, becomes mundane with ordinary plans and scope.

His simple days and nights are long,

Skies have no color, birds no song,

One of many, but not among,

One of many, but not among, a family or friends with hope.

And now in solitude he lies, to pass away devoid of mark.

No heirs are waiting for his throne,

No noted deeds be carved in stone,

Best years have left him all alone,

Best years have left him all alone, to pass away devoid of mark.

To pass away devoid of mark, seems such a wasteful way to leave.

Given gifts we have when life does start,

Filled with possibility and endless spark,

For one chance on earth to do his part,

For one chance on earth to do his part, which is his purpose, I believe.