(in the perspective of Little Sydney Manette)
When I was only six years old, a sickly but mysterious young man came to the house belonging to my parents, and my grandfather at dusk, and greeted my parents with an empty, but warm smile. He went up the stairs, and found me, a child, and sat down. He proceeded to ask me an easy question,
“Little Sydney, would you like to hear a story?”
And I answered, “Yes I would love to uncle Defarge!”
As the fire started crackling, the sad man who had a void in his heart seemingly started to fill with love, and compassion, as he started to speak, and tell of his stories with glassy eyes, happy, but sad. Empty, but fulfilled. I still remember now, and he said,
A servant to the saver of lives
Assists thy who laughs at those who die
But harms thy he protects with lies
Of assurance, helt & try
While helping thy who laughs at the dead
He tried to help those who bed
But the laugher went for his head (mentally)
Until he pled to those who led
We’ll harm & hurt those who foretold
Our souls were nothing but breadmold
So we took it fourfold
Until the servant made a mistake
& looked for thy who laughed with ache
But they just wanted to break
What this servant had at stake
& the servant didn’t wake
Until it was too late
Then the laugher perished
Then they finally did cherish
What they had around them
But for the servant, too late.
Though the servant did not foresee
That the laugher would pass
And the servant, crass
Without the warmth of people, he, now pessimistic
Finally does something logistic,
And comes to a place to breathe his last breath
He closed his eyes to accept death
And just like that, he fainted in front of the crackling fire, as I, the child screams for my parents, who came quick, and wept, for the apathetic young man.