A Dream, a Fantasy
I listened in on my grandfather's story,
for he was quite the raconteur.
He spoke of an evanescent memory,
one that was the arduous works of the cornfields.
As he remained demure in his reminiscence of the past long ago,
he smiled in complacency as he rocked in his chair.
My grandfather recognized the beauty in everything,
for even his labor was something he took pride in.
His story was a boy he once knew in the cornfields.
This boy had an insatiable appetite for trouble,
a trouble I never had to face.
My grandfather spoke of his attempts to console the boy,
and persuade him to stop the stealing.
But the boy could not,
in fear that his mother just might perish.
I looked thoughtfully at my grandfather,
whose morose attitude took me by surprise.
A tear slithered down his face,
when he explained that the boy's intrepid actions,
would never become noticed,
and his dream of a happy life would remain a fantasy.
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