Once, upon a cruel Eden,
a child sat in penance
over a lost toy
spending eight days
and seven twilights,
in starvation,
blight under his eyes,
yet,
the desire deepened and,
over his own regurgitations,
he fell dying,
in the arms of a kind God,
who lay for him, a buffet
of exquisite playthings,
but his heart still
was set upon the lost artefact,
the little plastic purgatory,
in an eggshell garden,
where men, women and gods,
cry over spilt milk,
and lost toys.
A heathen poet 