The Story Teller
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A program is pending. Kids are milling around,
ending the day on the fall afternoon.
A pamphlet about war is displayed on each desk,
ignored by the class, who are restless, at best.
Just a few books are opened, at the teacher's request
There's a strange mix of whispering, laughter, and squirming.
Chairs have been scooted to make extra room
No one much caring that a speaker is due.
They are just in a hurry to finish the day.
To leave with their friends, get on with their lives…..
The noise in the room hums like bees in hive
A guest soon appears, without much fanfare
Slow is his gait, from a limp. And they stare
how it takes him a moment to gather his words.
His gaze drifts away, to something reserved
His face marked of age, furrows deeply endowed
But, as his story unfolds, ...and the quiet takes hold,
all the air in the classroom is breathless and cold.
And so,.. left behind are scars of the truth
that will mark them forever, give them a cruel
lesson of life, lesson of death, lesson of courage, and much more respect
This was not just a movie, a book or a tale
But truth beyond fiction, a story of hell
The remains of his youth, are now left in their hands
to change what could happen, and never forget
With far-away eyes, and with sage not denied
The frail little man has made the room cry
Their tears brim with outrage, compassion and vows
The room has gone silent, but his light will shine on
The dust motes have settled, sun silvers his hair
Enlightenment enters where dark once appeared
The world at the window is now theirs to own
Somehow grown older……..they watch the man go
with the tears of their sorrow, on a fall afternoon
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2016
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