Home Of My Ancestors © Surazeus 2024 12 11 I see the world the same as no one else so I will scatter words upon the ground and tend them with the tears of lonely souls so they will blossom into trees of fruit that feed our spirits with ethereal dreams till bomb blasts wake us and we stumble lost. Just because my grandfather built this house, and several generations of our clan have lived here one hundred and twenty years, does not mean we should leave our hearts attached to rooms haunted by our sweet memories for our photos have fallen off the walls. Though we have never traveled far from home more than fifty miles any way at least, we can take this opportunity now to see the world beyond bounds of our hopes, exploring lands where no one welcomes us so we keep moving down the signless road. The treasures of our family memories, toys we played with when were little kids, books we read by the fire on winter nights, photos of our together happy times, presents we gave each other out of love, these priceless things mean nothing to us now. The world I see with eyes of bitter tears is different than the pretty world you see, so though we seem to exist on one plane we dwell far away on parallel worlds, divided by our faith in honest men who drive us away and steal all we made. Though people tell me some lost prophet said arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice, and this inspires my heart with hope that I can reacquire home of my ancestors stolen from us, yet I think this arc bends not fast enough. If no judge in any state court of law will rule deed of my home returned to me and thieves imprisoned for their heinous crime, then I will gather army of the lost to fight the tyrant on false judgment throne in revolution to right every wrong. When on the field of battle we charge forth and I am shot by bullet of despair, bury me by that house long burned to ash so I can claim that I have returned home, then eat apples that ripen from this tree which grows now from the sorrow of my heart.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Wednesday, December 11, 2024
Home Of My Ancestors
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Orpheus finds burned-out ruins of the house his grandfather built, and sifts among the ash for half-burned photographs of people whose names he has long forgotten.
ReplyDelete