The little master his village is in ruins
And here he is fishing for his own face in a puddle
Brave little bastard his ambition does not reflect his situation
Nor does his age reflect his purpose
Here at the edge of a stagnant puddle
A world situation is being resolved
He spits into his face and watches for it to come back into place
One day this puddle will be nothing more than a dry pothole in the road
And the little master’s face with no puddles to go home to
Instead he draws his face in the dust of the road

Ronald Rae