A little about this poem:
I wrote this poem to give my pal Lin, (remember her?), an idea for
a poem she had to do on fathers and sons for a school assignment.
I originally intended to do it with Xicanti and his father, (see
Surprises), but somewhere along
the way it turned into a Conan thing. It's not overly evident,
but it is. Okie dokie? It's not a very well developed poem,
but I still hope you enjoy it.
I look down upon him from my place up in the sky,
Seeing his youthful face, so full of life!
How I wish I could visit him,
Tell him I'm proud,
Show him I love him.
I'm his father... and I can't.
I'm dead, yet he lives.
I watch him closer now...
Why is he clothed in those rags?
Why didn't his mother care for him
As I told her to, so long ago?
He shivers in the street,
His threadbare tunic hardly warming his child's skin.
Why do they shun him,
These people he pleads to?
I see him grasp their strong hands
Within his weak ones,
Cry out the them with his small, undeveloped voice,
Search for acceptance...
"Or at least a crust of bread, sir!"
He finds none.
My heart surges...
I long to go to him...
To comfort him...
To feed him, clothe him, love him...
Damn this cloudy prison, and Erlik's hand
Which keep me from my son!
I watch him closer now...
Why do they not heed his cries?
His childlike grip lingers in theirs so long,
So young, so fragile...
He wrings their hands so delicately,
Crying, working at their fingers...
Why does he do it so?
What purpose does it serve?
And the pockets...
Why does he grab at the pockets
When they do not heed his cries?
Is it truly needed,
This... action?
Should his fingers linger so long?
His fingers that tug at their pockets,
Probing the depths,
Searching for something, it would seem.
But what?
Then the fingers draw away,
Something shiny they hold...
I look closer, wondering...
And it hits me.
He is a thief.
My son is a thief.
My son is a thief.
How could he do this to me?
Why did he do this to me?
I, his father, who gave him life!
He's hurt me, my son...
Ripped my beating heart from it's chest...
Why?
I watch him closer now,
Searching for an answer...
A reason...
Any reason, any reason!
Give me one, my son!
Give me but one.
Please.
He robs them blind, all of them.
As he pleads, grasping their hands,
He removes their rings, their bracelets,
Their wealth.
As he tugs at their clothes, their purses,
He takes their gold, their silver, their copper,
Never caught.
Never caught...
He is good at this, my son...
Very good indeed...
I think on this...
Do they really deserve their money,
These people who shun my son?
Have they felt what he's felt?
Are they orphaned, living in poverty?
Will a few coins, a ring here and there,
Matter all that much?
No.
I look down at my son,
My poor, dear little son,
Thrown into this life of poverty and neglect...
He's learned to survive...
He's found his way...
And I my reason.
I am proud of my son.
copyright 1999, Jadis Darkmore