As the boy returned from the village,
The wear in his body was visible.
The bones in him were trembling,
And his bones were weak and feeble.

And once he’d reached his limit,
He’d collapsed as though made of cards.
With his supper flying about,
And his body hitting the ground hard.

His brain trying to retrieve the items,
His body failing to do so.
Him lying on his back,
Too frail to sit up.

As he looks up at the glimmering sky,
At the clouds dancing,
He pictures different shapes and creatures,
“And that one’s like a horse prancing!”

Before he could blink it had already turned night,
And yet he was still enjoying himself,
Lying beneath the stars,
“Those look like… a shelf?”

Hours passed, his body still aching,
His fabric of reality getting folded.
Through the rock and stone,
He’s found the gold.