Beneath the moon's ambivalent gaze, I tread,
Upon a path of shadow where virtue fears to tread.
A cloak of night, my sworn disguise,
And yet the rustling leaves whisper my lies.
The soil beneath my boots is rich, yet unspoiled,
Its fragrance mingles with the sweat of the toiled.
For here, in this rural cradle, modest dreams dwell,
And I, their uninvited harbinger of farewell.
A house of clay, with thatched roof splayed wide,
Stands like a hermit on the forest’s side.
Its door creaks faintly as if it knows,
What secrets my stealthy ingress sows.
The lantern swings in a slow pendulum dance,
Its amber glow betrays my advance.
Oh, what irony, that light meant to stave away fear,
Now guides my hands as I linger near.
"What is a thief?" my conscience implores,
A question I've silenced but can no longer ignore.
Am I but hunger clad in leather and sin?
Or a specter of greed creeping within?
I stoop by the hearth, where embers still glow,
Their warmth is a silent witness to the life they bestow.
A pot of lentils, a morsel of bread,
The meal of the meek, whose labor lies dead.
But do I not labor? Do I not strive?
My craft is survival; my tools, the alive.
The lock I unlatch with dexterous grace,
It tells tales of hands as rugged as my face.
Yet guilt, that stubborn ember, burns my soul,
For I plunder the humble to make myself whole.
There, a chest, its wood worn thin,
A testament to stories carved within.
Perhaps it holds silver or jewels’ glimmering hue,
Or perhaps letters of love in faded blue.
I crack its lid with reverent ease,
The air inside whispers a sorrowful tease.
No riches reside here, no golden prize,
But a bundle of cloth and a child's tiny cries.
The room grows heavy, the walls seem to close,
As memories of my childhood impose.
Once, I too lay swaddled in a threadbare sheet,
Dreams of tomorrow tangled with hunger’s deceit.
And now I stand here, a villain ordained,
By a life that has stolen what dignity remained.
Yet mercy! What choice lies in my hand?
To leave empty, or rob what virtue demands?
A necklace of beads, a locket of tin,
Trinkets of a life where love might have been.
The moon outside seems to sharpen its glare,
Its judgment was etched in the chill of the air.
But I pocket the locket with trembling care,
For even in theft, I find solace there.
The sound of footsteps, soft and near,
The house awakens, its silence pierced by fear.
A woman appears, her eyes alight,
With a fire that banishes the consuming night.
Her voice is strong, though her frame is slight,
“Why do you take what is not yours by right?”
I stand, a shadow against her flame,
A ghost of humanity too ashamed to claim a name.
“I take it because I have not been given,
The crumbs of a world where fate has been riven.
I am no villain by choice or design,
But a man betrayed by a fate unkind.”
She watches, her gaze unyielding and true,
And in her silence, wisdom breaks through.
She steps forward, a gesture of grace,
And places a loaf in my empty embrace.
“Take this, but take no more,” she says,
“For the poor cannot rob the poorer of their threads.”
I leave that house, my pockets heavy with thought,
A thief, perhaps, but not what I sought.
For in her kindness, a mirror was shown,
A reflection of a life I had disowned.
And though I walk beneath the moon’s pale face,
It is her light, not hers, that fills this space.
So here I wander, a thief undone,
By the mercy of another beneath the sun.
The rural house sleeps, its dreams restored,
And I, the intruder, am forever implored.
To weigh the cost of what I steal,
And to find in my soul what life might heal.

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