They have taken my knives and tied me up. Of
little use am I. They have looked at my face
and accused. Of little use am I. They have
hit me hard and slammed that face against this
wall. Of little use am I. They am broken my teeth
and snapped my index fingers. Of little use am I.
How I ever got to this fix I am in I cannot really
remember. it was a long time ago. I was coursing
to the Holy Land to fight for my King, and for
Jesus, and to reclaim what I was told was mine.
We moved along for months - at a steadfast and
earnest pace : all these needs of food and help,
all these animals in all that space. Then we fought.
I was captured and some others started yelling; about
retribution and another God entire. They tied me up and
cracked my head. They beat me harshly and left me for
dead. Then, as they collected me I remembered I'd turned
fourteen. I again began to cry. Of little use am I.