To My Son

Thank God!... 'tis evening again
With today also, earthly misery is less a day.
Inside, alone an orphan candle flames:
Outside prowls the darkness.
So late, my little son, why are you awake?
Your bed is set so soft and warm.
 Your tiny hands drawn together nicely
 Pray, my sweet child.

A poor poet am I, you see,
Leaving little inheritance:
An unsoiled name at best,
Hollow merit with the mobs.
For this I sprinkle faith
In the springtime gardens of your innocent heart.
 Your tiny hands drawn together nicely
 Pray, my sweet child.

Precious treasure is faith to the poor...
It teaches hope and tolerance.
For they, till the tomb shall breathe upon them,
Must always hope and bear!
Oh, if in me, just as it once did,
Faith would live as consolation... !
 Your tiny hands drawn together nicely
 Pray, my sweet child.

When from among your playmates
Work should call you far away, perhaps early,
To serve as means to strangers,
Who may love you, but fosterly,
May embalming faith your lantern be
Through the secret, muted tears.
 Your tiny hands drawn together nicely
 Pray, my sweet child.

When you see and feel the crippling poverty
That the shoulders of honor bear
While sin tempts you to envy pigs
Who trample on morals, on the spirit,
And whose fate is earthly Eden,
May your faith weigh in the balance.
 Your tiny hands drawn together nicely
 Pray, my sweet child.

And if grown up you should find
That your fathers' land is not your home,
That the void between your cradle and your grave
Has served as door-mat to thousands
Solace take in the Holy Verb.
We but "wander earthly plains".
 Your tiny hands drawn together nicely
 Pray, my sweet child.

Oh, hope, hope for a better world
And in it for the victory of integrity
Else your fate and this earth
Incites you to rebel against God.
Roam happy in the heavens of your dreams
And may this kiss your passport be.
 Your tiny hands drawn together nicely
 Pray, my sweet child.