there walks the child

There walks the child

that lives many a life

before their growing

is done;

looking no different,

skin not crows-feet

scored by burden,

nor brow furrowed

by trials that tender

age should not face;

little ones who bend

but not break under

the many storms they

do not know of, who

take the sharp blows

of this world, faces like

Porcelain still;

many deprivations

they take in silence,

and alone endure,

with no rage or

demand howled;

such nobility would

humble me to sad

but for the smile

I wear in the

presence of perfection;