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Poetry: History

 

How little we change!  How tall
we grow.  And, yet, our hearts
remain too small to contain
our fantasies of power, our aches
and terrible premonitions,
our calculations and our need,
our limitless egos and
our boasts of awesome retribution.

The children laugh in the morning,
and run for the experience
of running.
                The days come and go,
depositing a fine dust of sunlight
which settles, sparkling and
winking out.
               Each day drifts down
and hardens, one thin layer
at a time, thickening imperceptibly
into a culture, a civilisation
laid at random and pressed
into place, strata on an ocean floor.

Tiny fossils are embedded,
immortalised in tics and gestures,
until we are transformed into
the waiting stuff of mountains.,
to be born from the earth,
dragon-toothed, adults, wrapped in
habits and understandings.
                             Then
comes the upheaval.   See!
                           See!
How tall we grow!  How little
we change.           We change
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