Last Generation of Scars

The etched scars upon my face,
marks of an old tribal clan,
openly speak of my place
as a well-respected man.
Children in my village sing
my praises, as for a king.

But in the restless city,
where I am dwelling now,
I find not even pity
for a sight that made men bow.
Children here, they only mock
my scars. Their hearts are as rock.

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