Part 2: Young

The archaeologist told me,
Of a time when he was young,
And he sat by the fire of a furnace,
His face covered with soot.

As he sat there with nothing to be,
His mother came out, with soup of tongue,
This was how their impoverishment would surface,
That they had no food, even though it's hard put.

Eventually, as the boy was searching for a leaf of tea,
He saw on the ground what appeared a lung,
But it had a gold finish as a surface,
So, the boy decided to take what was underfoot.

The story has a happy ending, which I did not agree,
For when the boy reached his home, his mother was flung,
And her face had a look of awareness,
She had died there, leaving the boy with no family root.

The boy ran, and ran to a sycamore tree,
Where he threw the golden lung,
Until it had hit a certain surface,
Of a man without his left foot.