He raises his hand with a question
to a giant in a pleaded skirt of plaid;
dwarf in his crushed little heart down under,
wondering why today he still cries.
But the lady looks up to the dwarf oddly,
as if the colossus was he, and she the child,
yet no mistake is there, neither he,
nor she is gander than the other.
Little boy in wrinkles, old man with baby skin,
she, a goddess of dark and blue, wonders
why he whimpers, terrified pup,
as only the sun shines in the firmament.
It is hard growing into that masterful elder,
when always, he comes home alone,
and the night remains a sole experience;
he will never age, outsider he will remain.