Eventualities of a Crushed Childhood

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If only feeble limbs can grow so numb

To satisfy thy merciless parched whip.

If only I do not bleed, never sob,

Perhaps, pour all thine anger in mine cup.

If only I could cower like a stomp

It never quirks no matter where ye hew. 

He is content to flop; he know'st no pomp

It sits still. "Lo, the lashes turning few!" 

But once the silent owns a voice, beware! 

He ascertains to hold it quite for long

Ye may begin to lose thy grip, I swear

Irresolute limbs hath now sprung forth strong. 

'Tis wrong to castigate thy very child;

All anger poured, turn' th hatred piled. 


Edited: 03.12.2019

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