To any sons thriving without Dads around,
For any sons finding their Fathers curtailed,
If minds to paternity had they bound,
This poem’s the sorrow they should have mailed.
Don’t traduce, you’ll reduce future power
From the weakness deep in their fleeting heart;
Wordings within time’s woodland and bower,
All’s born anew, your chance to re-start.
Understand now, as it’s written in acorns
Formed from dead oaks, beyond golden sokes cropped,
Less are the heroes, more troubled by thorns,
Better ahead, than before the yoke dropped.
Settle their debtors within and there’s peace,
Unfurled from success, all debts will then cease.