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A Vagrant (Part III)

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  • A Vagrant (Part III)

    Part I:
    Part II:

    Now at the turn of eight
    He soon then became a man
    From the early years of endless hate
    And a life of cut up hands.

    His hands, you see,
    Were torn and battered
    As he strove to flee
    The sight upon his parents murder.

    In fear of his small life,
    The boy left the bodies,
    Now blaming himself for the strife
    For his self life-valuing follies.

    If only he had stayed,
    If he had fought,
    He might not have swayed
    From his stable thoughts.

    He might not blame himself,
    Thus leading to such sorrow
    He might have then excelled
    Instead of living to last tomorrow.

    But no, he wandered through
    Those dangerous lonely streets,
    Living with great ado
    With nothing much to eat.

    Until a girl with long eyelashes,
    A wildflower in the forest,
    With hair as black as ashes,
    And coal eyes burning flawless,

    Found him in his restless torment.
    She asked for a piece of bread
    And while he had no money to spend,
    He searched for it till nearly dead.

    With that simple, honest question,
    She rekindled his aching heart,
    Sparking him out of his depression
    To fight for a possible life to start.

    While he had no land or money,
    He brought this starving girl some bread,
    Stealing to make this girl's day sunny
    Despite the fear for his life and head.

    Ten years after his parents' murder,
    He saw this fiery girl again,
    But she was no longer of starving ardor
    But was a woman of great amend.

    She paused to look
    At his face on the street,
    And despite the time that had surely snook,
    She saw him beneath the dirt and peat.

    She touched his face, nearly weeping,
    And pulled him to his feet.
    And all he time, his small heart leaping,
    He suddenly forgot his time on the street.

    For when she touched him,
    Yet he knew
    A love that he'd hidden,
    A love that from his heart he drew.

    He asked her of her name,
    And she, with twinkling eyes
    And a smile that looked like flame,
    Whispered in his ear the prize.

    This name was love and joy and heat,
    It was relief after years of trauma,
    And she whispered it so soft, so sweet,
    "Edana," she said, "My name's Edana."


    To be continued. (Yes, again)

  • #2
    It's a LOVE STORY! Yea! (Or at least the start of one) Oh I hope she doesn't break his heart.


    • Darthvader
      Darthvader commented
      Editing a comment
      Haha, yes it's a love story of sorts, thanks for reading 😂😂

  • #3
    What a fascinating tale you are weaving, Darthvadar!!!! Again, I cannot wait to read more!!! My hopes echo those of RLW...but then, tragedies do make excellent ballads...


    • #4
      N. Y. Sonnet haha, you are right on both accounts. As I warned in the beginning, this tale was not meant to inspire you to go skipping in a field of wildflowers in happiness, so the title of tragedy would indeed be fitting. Yet heartbreaking isn't the only way to make it a tragedy if you know what I mean