In the Village Circle

There once was an orphan
A frail little lad,
Who never had money to eat,
With ruddy nose,
And dull tattered clothes,
Not even a shoe for his feet.

In the village circle,
He watched the pleasant exchange,
And wondered how peasant from far to near,
Would draw to the goods they could claim.

Then back to the heart,
Similiar but small,
To dress dim-lit tables
With the fortune of fall.

Without pity, without slumber,
Were his cold lonesome nights,
When the ground became his ceiling,
And he dipped his wings into flight.

Down the mountains ascending,
Close to stars he would soar,
Dodging black holes to ladle the dust,
Scattered along glittering floor.

When the dawn would come chiming,
As the village would wake,
The lad laid forth his gifts with a smile,
For all the peasants to take.