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The Sorrow of a Wooden Puppet

By: John Martin F. Musones

It isn’t late to recognize the facts
How my entire body gradually rots
Every corner and joint turns rigidly
As I look up to most precious majesty

He used to carry me around town
Now I am all alone, mown, and forlorn
He used to wear me around his fingers
But now it’s only nothing that lingers

I am useless as a broken-stringed toy
No pleasure even to a homeless boy
Why, Master, can’t you again show me
How happy it was to move and be free?


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