Go Back, I

At your very birth, before your fanciful embellishments, they not only gazed, but breathed into you and meant and did you no harm. You were so pure and they were so true. Guarding you, guiding you, teaching you, knowing quite well what you were, but perhaps not what you would be; they wished you and were what you wished, and you could go, do, be as you pleased, take all and only what was good and enough, you needed no more than to reach and they would reach for you and back to you and meet you, grasping, halfway. But you hurled them to the ground. And horse-drawn chariots and carriages conveying warmongers and kings and queens, and decrepit carts stuttering wearily behind wearily stuttering flea-bitten mules, trampled and rolled over them roughshod. You stood among them, broken, shattered, scattered about your feet. Those broken pieces wept. 26th March 2005