When We Were Tiny People
Looking back from my noon and evening, back to the morning of my life,
Grey heads become brown again, wrinkles go, furrowed faces turn smooth,
Dull eyes clear and the cloudiness disappears, colorful images return,
Voices acquire power with a musical tone, echoes of childhood sweetness.
How many spirits of loved and lost, rise from their graves, young and fit,
A sister in heaven, a playmate, and our childish hands plucked flowers together,
The memory of old summer days in dear old lanes, with fragrant hedge-rows,
I fancy I can hear her happy voice, and see her pretty face, hair in tresses.
I can see her shaking her ribbons, her flushed heated brow, wanting to play,
To race across a meadow or to play hide and seek in the bushes of dense woods,
She throws petals into a stream and wets her nosegay with clear bright water,
I feel once more my arm around her neck, simple ribbons fluttering in breezes.
When I was a child my grand mother, now with the angels in the sky, watches all,
She tended me and loved me and taught me how to fold my hands and pray, to care,
Her smile was my sun when any clouds passed over my sky, her knee was my alter,
My head on her chest, my refuge, in times of childish need, bad things went away.
No tear ever started in my eye but her dear hand would wipe away that tear forever,
Thinking as a child a cluster of loved faces, now cold and lifeless come to mind,
Friendly voices, echo the chamber of my recollection as I call deep down memories,
How many cherished scenes come to mind for times long ago, never to return again.
Scenes now gone, altered like the visions of a dream, a tear rolls down my red cheeks,
Remembering fields and lanes where beautiful flowers flung their fragrance in the air,
Places now changed to streets and squares where mansions rise, and many families live,
Green Valley’s where the sheep bell used to sound, now roaring with the crash of the forge.
Now I cannot pluck the daisy from the bank, today there is a blackened heap of ashes,
The butterfly has gone as the charred fire trail has blighted where she used to settle,
Ladybirds, departed as the thick black smoke has choked the air where it loved to live,
What a difference from the days of happiness where simple things were taken for granted.
No sorrow came over me in those sweet days; no sigh would dwell in my heart or soul,
The tear I shed upon my sisters grave, fell onto dirty green turf covering her dust,
The joys we had were long lived and grief faded like a summer cloud as the day warmed,
As I grow older, I wipe a tear drop from my eye, It happens every time I look behind.