Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are based on the authors' lives and experiences and may be changed to protect personal information. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Timmy's Journal - 30. The Peddler's Memoriam (Rubaiyat)
I wanted to write a longer Rubaiyat because I think this is a longer poem traditionally. But I was having issues with inspiration, so I thought about classic stories and fairy tales and thought of the Little Match Girl. Here is a rubaiyat inspired by that classic story.
A Peddler’s Memoriam
Tis the final night of the good, past year
The crowds are happy, and enjoy their cheer
In my too large shoes, I walk on unseen
Darkness falls quickly but the way is clear
Papa had set me on my path to glean
Money from the wealthy folk he is keen
It’s my duty to sell my meager wares
I try, but am awestruck by the scene
Houses glow brightly, while candles flare
The smell of roasting meat is in the air
Can they not hear my empty belly sing?
The people laugh and dance without a care
The gaily-painted women walk and swing
Men watch, follow and pay them for a fling
None of them will buy my goods this cold night
I dread the angry words failure will bring
Papa will rage, he and Mama will fight
Our house will be cold, there will be no light
We kids are quiet for our own sakes
Until yelling stops and things are all right
I shelter 'tween houses, I've got the shakes
Deep is the chill and my poor body aches
Carriages carrying sweet lovers abound
I need to sell, no matter what it takes
Snow is heavy and it covers the ground
Suddenly there are specters all around
But I know it’s the cold causing these sights
I wish for a fire to keep them earthbound
Years before now, a girl suffered this plight
She did not escape, but froze that sad night
And she died where she'd huddled from the cold
The poor little match girl covered in white
Alone with no shoes, her burnt matches told
A story of fear and of sadness bold
No one did miss her or for her did mourn
Nor that night were any bells for her tolled
So onward in shoes that are over-worn
I sell all through the night until the morn,
Now my pockets are full and I do twirl
Maybe Papa will be glad I was born.
I look out and see pretty snowflakes swirl
Papa smiles, Mama has put in a curl
Tis the first day of New Years, so we feast
I, in mem'ry of the little match girl.
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Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are based on the authors' lives and experiences and may be changed to protect personal information. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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