A black-skinned drummer boy is

dancing in the field of lilies, his drums

cast aside. The sunlight is wafting

through the breaks in the leaves,

in the green, to find its way onto

the boy’s skin, reflecting back all the

joy of youth.

His radiant smile is that of the abused,

that of the misused,

but he is free now, he is free.

-

He closes his eyes—

wooden eyes—

but that’s not what he meant to see…

-

Wooden eyes,

oak eyes…a man cannot

see with wooden eyes.

-

He cannot see his little runaway.

-

A green youth is in the air,

but this boy can’t feel it.

Clothed with the past,

and bare to the future,

this trodden boy is one whose

eyes have deceived him.

-

This man cannot,

will not,

must not

find him.

-

Wooden eyes are under the ground,

sprouting discontent and rage.

-

The black-skinned boy reaches for his

drums,

but the shine of the river catches his

eyes, (not wooden eyes), and he

wanders, wonders, wanders to the river’s edge.

-

Silver sparkles and gold glitters hint at

a silent gilded music-maker.

A hand reaches, fingers curl, another

music-maker is rescued…just like the drums,

just like the lute…just like the boy.

So much like the boy, for the boy was

drowning…this black-skinned boy was

suffocating from the weight of his master’s

wooden eyes.

-

The horn of a wooden victory resounds

through the green, through the red and gold,

through the blue and endless blue…