She stood by the
road, responding to conversation, cryptic formations; a child’s response to
adult themes. Life bombards her with
self awareness, and she responds in short, obscure replies.
A child’s voice I
hear, and I wonder if you are mimicking life?
I talk in full
sentences, she cannot reply. She looks
away, and the world around is left with deadening silence.
A paragraph, she
now speaks of fears; telling of what she can not go beyond: A past together of feelings
of pressure; she absolves responsibly, to a snail’s pace, more or less. Slow down, she asks, and views the past.
Words I see, just
words. She
places, not just responsibility, but guilt onto the world.
I am the cause of
these spoken words, the world at large. I am the problem, the guilt ridden. Am I to grant her this imaginary world, or a forgiveness
she does not recognize? Where is this
ethereal line in which we stand? Step
forward, step backward, step up? Where,
please tell me where we take this stand?
A quandary, there is no easy answer; where do we draw this line?
A
timid voice spoke from the crowd
No
Time to reply
No
Time, had she to give
No
time to try
The earth shook
The child trembled when she tried to stand
Help me, she pleaded
I
will try
Stand up, stand up
March in the parade
Stand up, stand up
Do not be afraid
Stand up and be counted
A strong voice command
Stand up, stand up
She hears the band
Standing
very still by the side of the road, not able to march, just waiting for time
and the band to pass
Stand up, stand up
March in this line
Standing, standing
All
will be fine
I’ll
march tomorrow, this I vow
Life
will continue, if time will allow
No
child to be seen, no time to play
Time
marched on, life passed away
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