Now, I say goodbye.
I am only three years old.
Yet, I cannot speak.
Of this world, I know
Nothing, the words I must use
To describe the past.
Wicked is my soul
To orbit the gravity
Of flames without spark.
I am a candle.
A memory caught in time
To console the weak.
Soon, the boy will grow.
No longer, just three years old
But an older man.
As I grow older
I learn the language, the words
Not of the outcast.
Yes, while in exile
From the kingdom of my birth,
These trees have no bark.
Granted no reprieve
I cannot return back home.
But live in exile.
Older and wiser.
As I learn philosophy.
This life, I must span.
Objects of reason
Ideas, a child never knows
But, deep in my gut.
Different in difference.
Once, a small boy. I stand out.
Others instill doubt.
Burdened with the weight
Of the universe, my back
Faces the first cut.
Yes, I am a slave.
Born a prince in my homeland.
How to span the route?
Envy the others
Who know nothing of hardship.
This life, full of guile.
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