The book of Growing, Living and Dying

The Book of growing, living and
dying

@madame_ducon

by Deise Ramos (11th Grade)
Escola Secundária Fernando Namora
Amadora, Lisbon, Portugal

Growing

Long ago, in a winter full of snow,
A child was born. A boy, to be precise,
with raven hair and moony eyes.

He liked to stare at the sun, this boy,
Following the star´s daughters day after day,
Again and again, rise from the dead to die once more

He found beauty in the little things,
Staring at butterflies, flowers and the rain
He was a simple boy with a simple heart
A kind soul that resembled art.

He liked the ocean, this boy,
The salty, pungent, smell.
He would sit by it on a lanky chair,
Read poetry to a silent swell

There was one problem, though:
The deadly fear of having to grow
He wanted to stay a child forever
To keep young, innocent and tender

But the boy had time. Or so he thought.
Meanwhile, he played, laughed and grew some more.
Running through the fields, staring at the sky
kissed by the stars, married to the night

Time passed by, flew featherily, but still sure,
Soon enough, there was no little boy
Only the foggy memories of a lost childhood.
And so it began, his journey into adulthood

Living

When the boy grew into a man,
at the sun's daughters no longer did he stare
It was easier to run than to grow
To hide than to lose the innocence of a child

No longer did he think of butterflies
No longer would he be mesmerized
by the simplicity of life.
He was now cold, harsh
A loud, bothersome, thunder clash

Many things he aimed to own,
Fame, fortune. He had it all
All but what money couldn´t bribe
Love, affection. Time.

¨Growing¨. A simple word
Two syllables it is, but carries the weight of the world
Youth passes by like a blown kiss.
A fragile flower amongst the mist

He swore to try, pry into love
At the end of the day, no call,
No light signal from up above

And so the man gave up,
Reduced to small boy memories and could be's

That man with moon eyes and raven hair
Now only possessed the sea and a chair

III

dying

There was a chair by the sea,
Where he sat staring longingly
looking down from up above
At the ocean's silent push and shove

His hair was no longer raven,
a silver color coating it
Though he had the same moony eyes,
Carrying hope and wit

It was in that chair, facing the sea
with the ocean as a quiet listener
that the man, in a feverish plea
would covet the night as his lover

And the sea listened, and so did the chair
They summoned the dark, starry night
and made a swear:

"You will listen to us, in all your might
take our friend with you, lonely night.
Take him to the stars and deep sky
for the time has come. It's farewell. Goodbye¨

That morning, the sun did not shine
None of his daughters rose from the dead
That morning, the sea and chair cried
For they realized life is no more than a thread

Now, when the sea weep o´ers, storms form.
And the chair, long forgotten and beaten by time,
Is no more than a wooden thorn.