It is for Sydney Carton that I live,
For he whom society forgets or misinterprets,
A man not cared for,
Not even by himself,
Given to the heavy nightly drink
Which drowns out partially
The heavier and constant think,
Who long ago stored ambition
On some dusty shelf.
His actions are of his own volition
Which is often dormant
But exists nonetheless,
And there is the occasional other
Who quite by accident may access
The low blue flame which still burns
One hundred leagues beneath his breast.
He is lost to all men.
He is lost to all women.
He is lost to himself,
But not so with God and with children.
It is for Sydney Carton that I live,
For fervent hope that any man,
However pained, lost, misunderstood,
Might still have it in him to do something great,
Still hold the ability to do some good.
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