| Saturday, August 6, 2011
The little ones go so soon,
so tiny,
a higher surface area to volume ratio,
lost, lost to the wind.
But they come back soon,
rain, condensation, little hands tugging at the droplets of salt,
checking in at lungs and leaves,
they come back soon.
They try to kill you, little one.
They still try, the slashes of ink so desperately trying to kill you,
legions of facts marching, marching, trying to trample.
So you leave, missed by no one but me.
But you will return, won't you?
Back to nourish the child,
to build an oasis from the parched desert,
to make up for lost time.
Three and a half years gone, still two more years of persecution.
Lost time indeed.
But that will pass.
What will come, will come.
What will never come, can never be forced.
The days of grovelling in the dust,
of allowing the slow march of facts and numbers to slash and hurt,
will soon be over.
the purple piggy oinked 6:30 PM
