“My boy” Spoke the father to his son,
“What multitude of fields do I work,
Both morning and even to keep you?”
His only child was a distant one,
And knew himself didn’t want to talk,
So answered as a cruel man would do,
“I see that you work, but not for me.
You labour for your own wealth and gain.”
The words left sharp with a bitter tone,
“What is your low wealth?” Continued he,
“When it is taken by me or rain.
Death come rushing upon you old one.”
Leaving the father to deep sorrow,
His only son took up an oak rod,
And walking away, spoke one last time,
“I leave. I return over-morrow;
After I find escape from this sod.
Then, I come back for all that is mine!”
The day passed and tomorrow came now,
But the man-to-be had found nothing,
So he strolled to his father and said,
“Father of mine.” The son stopped to bow,
“Fool does not show the sum of the thing.
I am worthy not of food nor bed,
Master, take me as a servant, please.
Your fields I shall dig, your animals feed.”
His Father, with a good regret too,
Lifted his sons chin from his bent knees,
And spoke “You are forgiven indeed.
Come. Your future is here for you.”