Boy Wa Church

In the town of solace, 'neath the steeple's perch,

Lived a man named Boy Wa Church,

With a heart weighed down, burdened and lurch,

He vowed, "I'll stay busy, not a moment to besmirch."

With hammer and nail, he built dreams so grand,

A refuge from sorrow, in toil and sand,

Each day a canvas, with purpose in hand,

"No room for sadness," he'd firmly command.

From dawn till dusk, in the workshop's embrace,

Crafting joy in every measured space,

Whistling tunes, leaving no trace,

Of the tears that once marked his face.

In the dance of tasks, he found his reprieve,

An antidote to the ache, a balm to believe,

Busy hands, a remedy, woven to deceive,

The sorrow that threatened, he aimed to retrieve.

Yet, beneath the façade, in the quiet of night,

When stars whispered tales and the moon shone bright,

Boy Wa Church, in solitude's light,

Felt the echoes of sadness, a clandestine plight.

For busyness, a cloak, can only disguise,

The heart's silent murmurs, its muted cries,

Yet, Boy Wa Church, with determined eyes,

Chose the path of action, where solace lies.

In the rhythm of labor, a melody composed,

A symphony of purpose, where sadness dozed,

"I'll stay busy," he declared, as he closed,

The door on despair, where hope interposed.