Sons fatherless wander in the forest,
Trample and tread upon ways of the field,
Edges of earth searching so to be healed,
Tho' find they no relief nor even rest.
For life, as then and always, is a test,
A trial of the soul -- the sentence sealed;
Tho' perpetrator ever chained and jailed --
No statute-stated reason for arrest.
Yet no criminal he whose innocense
Is marked upon his forehead as a sign --
But just an extra son -- a pale pilgrim --
A slave to search -- a puppet uselessness --
Who look and look and look but never find
The gardener who planted and left him.