Narrative

Emilie was his mother's name And Emile was his own The two have taxmen to blame For facing these troubles alone Roger was his father Who left on a festive night The man remained not bothered For the rest of his son's life

Phobias crawled in their blood And came jumping out of their skin Their crop was nothing but mud And nothing was left of their kin They left dirt on their face And cleanliness on the floor And although it was a silent place Safety walked out the door

Nothing noisy which haunts them longer Than a poor harvest and a dead air The workers can't get stronger The silver bowls stay bare