The small flattened graves of his parents are his playground in a vacant parcel of land.
A puddle near the graves form his sea where his paper ships pass by:
Poor little orphan boy of five, the hovel smoke and grime all over his face!

And he is just as your boy is, a child who loves to play,
Except that he is drawn to this spot where his parents lie dead and cannot get away.

And he would like the open fields, for often in his dreams
The angels kind of bear him off to where there are pleasant streams,
Where he may sail a splendid paper boat, sometimes he flies a kite,
Or runs beside a neighbours dog and shouts with all his might;will anyone ever love me?

But when the dawn of morning comes he wakes to find once more
That what he thought were clean bed linen are his rags upon the floor.

Then through the hot and sultry day he plays at “make-pretend,”
The alley is a playground where all the other folks send
Their little boys and girls to play,
And though he tries so very hard to play, somehow it seems
He never gets such wondrous joys as angels bring in his dreams.

Poor little orphan boy of five, except that he is grimed and dirty,
With sunken cheeks and hollow eyes and very frail,
Just like that little boy of yours, with same desire to play,
Fond of the open fields and sunny skies, he’s built the self-same way;

But kept by fate and circumstance away from streams of joy from parents that other boys enjoy,
His only joy comes when he sleeps and angels bring him dreams.

Dreams of not being all alone in the world;
Dreams that one day,he will find the warmth of love
That he never had from his parents
In a Woman who will be brave enough to love an Orphan Child!

Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.

Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.

Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.