Born a docile thing,

With cheeks as ripe as tomato skin,

And hands that clung like grapevines.

This small child,

Born clean,

And pure,

And good,

Would be a better beast than the ones who fathered him.

But the vigour of kin can be contagious,

And lit by the hands of his own progenitors,

The boy began to change,

A too hot flame searing his good will.

A child once destined to raise mountains,

And tend to the earths wounds,

Would instead,

Be a different kind of man.

He who was thought to be all tomato pulp,

And soft fleshy skin,

Was instead the fruit of his blood.

A wilted tangle of brambles and thorn,

Sharp and cruel,

Mean and hard.