Many Mansions

I will never build my house now, my hands are too weak. I shall never go to war, for everywhere I look I see nothing to kill. That house never did belong here. That house is built in a world, where people come and go at my asking, by my invitation, and I am there at their command also. Nothing in that world is there, that I have not created. There are books of poems those books are under my hand now they are as piles of dust here, but there, in that other place, they have their own library, one built upon sunlight. I shall not go to war now, nor defend myself from an enemy who was, so often as woe begotten as I. Often, I think I hear doors opening and closing, and sometimes I think I see those I have yet to meet. We smile, embrace in instant recognition. We all shake the dust off our feet.