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A lad in brown, from a country town,
Asked the roving peddler:
“ ‘Scuse me, sir, but I wonder
If you could show me the way to Heroica.
My mother said upon her deathbed
‘Son, if you wish to be great
You must journey far in search of a star
Of a place known as only Heroica.
And I’ve roved the land as much as I can
In sunshine and in shadow.
I’ve been here and there and I reckon everywhere
But I just cannot find Heroica.
Mama said to me, ‘If it’s great you’ll be,
You’d best get going on.
Run hard and long and do no wrong
And one day you’ll reach Heroica.’
Well, I’ve run and run, but found not one
Place that could be what I seek.
I reckon it’s fair with a colorful flair
This place known only as Heroica.
I’m sure its grand as no other land
Has been or ever will be.
I seek my destiny in this land of harmony
Known only as Heroica.
But it must be far, this land like a star
And farther than I’d thought it would be.
So could you give a hand and point out the land
That is known only as Heroica? ”
And the peddler laughed as if he were daft
And said, “Boy, you’re a fool.
You’ve been running up and down in search of a town
Known only as Heroica.
Well, I’ll tell you straight, there ain’t no gate
That’ll pass into any such place.
Your ma, she was right, but you took flight
Without ever understanding Heroica.
It’s not a place to which you race
Not a land or a field or a stone.
It’s who you are, not where you are,
That’s the real and only true Heroica.”
Sophia White
| Submitted Date |
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Sunday, May 21, 2006 |
| Submitted Date |
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Sunday, May 21, 2006 |
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Poets
