The Age of Words
written by: Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia
Words come to me every morning
With their bright, hopeful faces
Eager and curious as schoolboys
Earnest and bubbly like schoolgirls
Ready to learn new ways of making meaning
Wanting new poems to turn into wigwams
And new phrases to climb upon and slide down from
And I, not wanting to dampen their springing spirits,
Give them some new toy to play with
Or show them some old abandoned houses
To play hide and seek in
Or hum a new or old melody for them to dance to
Or a new idea to swing from
As in park swings or old-fashioned gallows
And then I see that many young words
Are actually gnarled and ancient
Some look wrinkled and tired
Others are better preserved
But none of them can stop us
From destroying ourselves
We are programmed to self-destruct.
Praise be!
Who wants a sick eternity?
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