O Sisters & Brothers, that is Sorrow!
It comes like dark waters through the chinks, whisteling low-voiced, just like winterwinds through a broken window.
It huddles on the backseats of the bus and it strikes you like a nasty odour when you lift the toilet-seat, ready to throw up.
It chuckles your throat and makes your hands cold as ice, your tongue gets swollen, unable to move, and you can not speak.
It holds a knife against your skin, but you do not bleed.
It throws its rocks at you, but you do not fall.
You're walking up straight - head held high but deep inside you're crumbeling helplesly.
That is Sorrow, O Sweet Sisters & Brothers!
But is a poem ever important?
You've gotta have perspecitve on things and honestly my dog at the time (Wanda) was a hell of a lot more important than that poem. However... the poem probably ment more to me than half the kids in junior high.
And then there's someone like Ghandhi or Hitler who in some distant way probably effected my life more than even my dog.
Confession: At times... after reading those pretty lousy first lines, the last two still manage to grab me. I do not know why.
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