somewhere between the gate called beautiful
where the lame man walked
and the day called wonderful
when the last tear is dried and the dancing starts
wanders a people who tell stories
of wind filling a room with fire
they stumble through a wasteland
the world rendered scorched and barren
by the stories of life so rich
that everything within reach
is withered by the words
it is a vast desert dotted
with the occasional insufficient oasis
spaced slightly too far apart
yes there is a river,
but a river of justice running so wide and deep
they dip their hands in for cooling
and it runs through their fingers
dry pebbles and dust
surrounded by a freedom so boundless
that the horizon a life's walk away
seems a prison in perspective
these stories too beautiful for words
a hope too hungry for the fuel of a beated heart
or even all hearts together
no lament deep enough to fill the chasm between
the utterance which shakes the pillars of creation
and the timid noises which they hope, at best,
will not spend their brief span
echoing as lies
yet still they sing with a joy unjustified
drink deep when water can be found
carrying what extra they can shoulder
should they stumble upon someone thirsty
leaving footprints, impressions of truth
seedlings of green sprouting in the places where they
strode and swung their weight forwards
step by step they write across the wasteland
a version of the story
which names the heartless desert as un-truth