There’s a little square box
at the foot of the tree,
with a gold shiny wrap and a bow,
and it sits every year,
in a similar spot,
always left when the last presents go.
Seven years it’s been there,
since that day when the girl,
then aged three, wrapped the box feeling glad,
using far too much paper,
as children will do,
she was smiling, her first gift for Dad.
So she walked in the room,
held it out with a grin,
to her father, and then he got riled.
“You have wasted that paper,
expensive, it’s gold”,
and a sad face appeared on the child.
But he took up the box,
and he opened the lid,
there was nothing inside it to see.
“Don’t you know that there should be
a present in there? ”
and snapped it back shut, angrily.
Tears welled up, and she cried
as she spoke of the box,
“Oh Daddy, there is something there,
I blew in some kisses,
and all were for you”,
and the big man was crushed by her care.
Then he put his arms round,
and he begged her forgive,
as they cuddled and hugged by the tree,
and the little gold box
lived for years by his bed,
as a keepsake of loved family.
If he ever felt low,
he would open the cube,
and take out an imaginary kiss,
and remember the day,
that his child put it there,
unconditional love, was his bliss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem