In the morning of memory I see me a boy
Who is quietly camped in his world of joy.
Quite alone and apart, with imaginative things,
He sits down with his heroes and softly he sings.
They are mounted on horses, a white and a black;
They have pistols and swords to engage and attack;
They have confident courage for fighting the foe,
And its on to the hide-out they gallop and go.
They are seen, there are shots, one is wounded, fights on;
Dozen outlaws are fleeing, the guts in them gone.
Then the black is surrounded by masterminds three,
But the master of white is a blur they don’t see!
With three sweeps of his sword they are trunks on the ground,
And there’s no way of hearing the sword’s singing sound.
Then, as brothers together the two of them ride
For the sake of that justice that stirs up their pride,
Till the valley, their homeland, once more is secure,
And the joy of their living shall long time endure.
Now he sings, oh more loudly, and stands he so tall,
Who is barely three feet—a great giant so small.
And his eyes are lit brightly with things sung and done,
While his fingers spread open for things not yet won,
And cool air to his forehead comes sweet with a kiss
Of the capturing future that’s his not to miss.
Now it’s silent—but no, there’s a “bump” of a chair;
Plop-plop of two shoes—his sister is there,
And soon she’ll call down to the basement below
Where the fires of his campsite are dreams set a-glow.
In the morning of memory I hear me a boy
Who is quietly in me still singing his joy.