Song of the Shoes

My shoes were kid, the finest from the shop.
My father made them for me with his love.
"Liebchen!" he called me as he put them on.
I was too young to button them myself.
I ran to him in them. My staggering steps
Left little wear upon the leather soles.
I felt the world beneath my feet at last.
I ran a little, then he picked me up.
I never really learnt to walk alone —
My mother's, father's, then, the soldiers' arms
Carried me onward, bore me to my end.

They took my shoes. I dreamt of other ones.
My father had been saving coloured scraps —
Bright, sizzling red to case my tiny feet
And match the roses on my mother's dress.

The ones I left were white — my first and last —
Made from the kid he used for wedding shoes.
They lie promiscuously in the heap
With tough brown boots once worn by laughing boys. 
A million visitors walk by them now.