the theft

The Theft

I child was born, no not in Bethlehem, but in
a timbered home along a frozen Nordic coast
and since I happened to be there as a restless
soul with nowhere to go I threw it the baby’s
still sleeping soul and took it place.

Infanthood was a difficult time couldn’t do
anything by myself, was washed fed and sung
to. Closed my eyes and was a silent child;
I tried not to look at my mum since she said
I didn’t behave like an infant should

I began a new physical life, not as great as
you may think, as most things I do I have
done and said before, yet it was better than
being a homeless soul, not yet ready to yield
to the harp playing ranch -in- the sky, lot .

Lately though, the soul I deprived of bodily
life wakes me up at nights, tuneless chants;
“If your chewing gum loses its flavour on
the bedpost over night,” grins and cruelly
waits for me to lose my battle against old age.