Morningside.
The old man died.
And no one cried.
They simply turned away.
And when he died,
he left a table,
made of nails and pride.
And with his hands,
he carves these words inside:
"for my children".

Morninglight.
Morningbright.
I spent the night,
with dreams that make you weep.
Morningtime,
wash away the sadness
of these eyes of mine!
For I recall the words
the old man signed:
"for my children".

And the legs were shaped with his hands.
And the top was made of oaken wood.
And the children sat around this table,
touched with their laughter.
Ah, and it was good.

Morningside.
An old man died.
And no one cried.
He surely died alone.
And truth is sad.
For not a child would clame,
the gift he had.
The words he carved,
became his epitath:
"for my children".