In the mob there is a lad,
Lost and sober in his thought.
A will to fight, a flame to survive,
In the wilder of this life.
Came to the world with a smile,
Laughed and cried in impeccable bliss.
Toyed with books never in place,
Smiling in the arms of his fairy.
Learned to walk fumbling and mumbling,
Being ironically comic in the crowd.
Rosy cheeks pulled with tender hands,
Pampered yet punished to be mould.
Years passed and he grew up,
Wishing for roses in disguise.
Is there mist in his eyes,
Of the dreams in which he cried.
Twisted but weaved is his story,
Rusted but chiming is his glory.
From immense despair to a perfect bliss,
Wish him luck for walking path leading to nowhere.