The Man In The Hole
Once there was a man who stumbled into a ditch,
He fell hard and let out a painful pitch.
You see, this hole was terribly deep,
He couldn’t climb out—the walls were too steep.
So he waited on sun and moon for aid,
Till down fell a boy, with a shout, dismayed.
They talked awhile and made a plan:
“You’ll stand on my shoulders,” said the man.
“When you get out, remember a rope—
Toss it back down and give me hope.”
The lad climbed free and walked away,
Forgot the man like yesterday.
Still in the hole, the man remained—
Alone, in silence, lost and pained.
Then in fell a soldier, weary and sore,
And the man welcomed him once more.
They waited till he could stand again,
Then settled on the same old plan.
The man called out as he crossed the slope,
“Don’t forget—throw down a rope.”
The soldier climbed out and never looked back.
The man sat still in shadows black.
Days turned to weeks, then months alone,
Till in fell a girl with a startled moan.
The man, still hoping, offered a hand,
And once again they made a plan.
But when she rose and reached the light,
She too forgot, was gone from sight.
This happened more times than he could say—
Again and again, they walked away.
And slowly, over the passing years,
Even his prayers began to shift from tears.
He no longer begged for rope or escape,
But scraps of food or drops for his ache.
Just little things to keep him fed,
To quiet the hunger and rest his head.
Then in the seventh year, as fate would play,
A boy fell in, chasing a rabbit astray.
They talked, they planned—the old routine.
The man, now frail, worn and lean.
“When I get out, should I throw down a rope?”
The man blinked twice, stirred by hope.
He smiled and whispered, “No need, my son—
I’m fine right here. My journey’s done.”
It wasn’t that he wished to stay,
But if the boy had looked, he'd say—
He’d have seen the roots, the soil, the gloom:
The man’s feet had grown into the room.
Copyright ©
Ayomide Oyindamola
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