• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 11


An empty bucket in hand -
I trespass dry land to decant my joy
You have been there once, remember

when you walked with your head held high?
your shoes, polished to shine -
two tiny jewels to ornament your leather-clad feet

I will grow up to be like you
and I cannot hope to hold on to
every dream I carry

Because I do not know what it is not to dream
and to be merry -
a boy holding a bucket

to be filled with drops of laughter and lough.
I run to the water to salute it all:
beatified, well-nigh and within reach.