I am the third son of a third son
Of a man with just one eye,
He’d have a hundred years now
Tucked under his belt.
Lessons he taught
From battles he fought.
Not the one across the sea
For his vision compromised
The childhood accident
The tragedy despised.
Running with scissors
And tripping with scissors
Not just a cautionary tale.
His war included no bullets
His attrition risked no shrapnel
Just the simple devotion of a simple man
To put bread upon the table.
Raising cattle in a frigid land
Where even water retains no flexibility
And gives up its crown for a time unchallenged.
Years later raising young by the seaside
His tidepool kingdom crashed down
When the water came in high.
One wife down and one to go
The missing mother divided
An already divided clan.
Trudging onwards to surest of horizons
His compass unflinching in its convictions,
His health faded but his faith did not
And the proof was in a vacant body
Found on two bent knees.
– Vagabond Prophet
@mildreflections I think you may like this, I was inspired by your poem about your grandfather.
Vagabond Prophet 