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In a World

Where there are star-scratching trees and
wind-scratched mountains,
Where there are rocks like boulders and boulders like cliff tops,
Where there is a field so full of flowers it is the sea,

Where there are islands and isles and marooned deserted rocks,
Where there are solid waves stroking liquid sand,
Where there are sailboats and pirate ships
and canoes, kayaks and rowboats and
lifeboats and Titanics,

Where there is Scotland and Ireland and Africa,
Where there is a tiny farmhouse in between
the hills of a soft green nowhere,
At the same time as a palm tree beach off
the coast of anywhere,
While a cave is waiting and doing nothing
but being empty and somewhere,
Where an obsidian staircase is wedged
between two slabs of unprinted snow,
turning and rushing and cold,

Where there is indigo and pirouettes and
the key of C,

Where women paint their faces white and
hold umbrellas,
Where they cover their heads and protect
their arms,
Where they put jewels in their skin and rings
on their necks and holes in their lips,
Where men dance in a circle with blue feathers
on their heads
And paint their bodies red,
Where children climb trees and mountains
and the spongy corpses of giants long-dead,

Where empty chairs and empty tables become barricades,
Where a song can rise from a mass grave if
a child will only start it,
Where there is no greater love than for a man
to lay down his life for his friends,

Where there is Jesus and Mohammad and
Buddha and Zeus,
And where there is God,

I will go to school,
I will go to college,
I will go to work,
And I will die.


-- Hannah A., 14