Boy of Iron

I was a boy made of iron,
Standing lone on a starry hill
Watching a night city
Of diamonds and gold
And scratching my iron eyes
Against the cold, dry wind,
And I cried little iron tears

I was a boy made of iron,
Who wore an effigy
Of a thousand years past
On my tattered sleeve
In an ashen house
On an ashen street,
And I cried little iron tears

I was a boy made of iron,
Never having felt
The rust grow slowly over my skin
To scab over the wounds
Laid on the table
Tilting dangerously in front of me,
And I cried little iron tears

I was a boy made of iron,
Locked in by the sky
And with a burning in my ears
Of words and words
In a field full of doubts
Ripened bitter in the sand,
And I cried little iron tears

I was a boy made of iron,
With my lungs imploded,
Choking eyes in solemn destitute
Rocking back and away
To those grinning statues
And columns that threaten to topple,
And I cried little iron tears

I was a boy made of iron,
Who tasted the specks of dust
Coating the dashboard
Of this run-aground dreamship
Rolling into the waves
And collapsing in on myself,
And I cried little iron tears

I was a boy made of iron,
And the sun shone over my head
Pricking away at my shoulder straps
So I walked and felt the wind
I walked and felt the warm wind
Move the rows of trees,
And I cried little iron tears

I was a boy made of iron,
And so it came to pass
That the arms around my neck
Sent me melting to the grass.
And when my senses came to
In a shade of memories past
My eyes would no longer give,
Have I really ever cried before?
I simply can’t remember any more.

– Michaël Veremans, 2005

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