Father; if once but then a thousand times
You’ve told me not to cry for this small wrong:
A glass of milk that poured out on the grime.
Yet still I cry though it has been so long.
But surely I’ve committed greater ill?
I’ve spilt not just a simple glass of milk
Whose purpose was the stomach for to fill,
But stomach, face, and all, covered in silk.
Surely I desire that great inferno
I who now compare with milk your murder.
From doctor or from me I do not know
Whence came the final cause, nor if’t matter
For gone is it and never shall come back
That morn in which I first of you felt lack.
~ By: Grace Kirk