We are centuries apart - but today I step forward and look her in the eyes.
“You are walking among the garden - to and fro - yet you always come back to me. Now what can you want today?”
Her voice grazes my ears and it hurts - but she does not mean unwell. She would always let me look, let me climb, and let me sit under - spend plenty of time in content, in peace, in quiet.
In my child years, I would rob her pockets swirling with larvae.
I would tear her lungs out and make toy boats out of it.
I would climb and greet the family on top, receiving tearful screams.
So today I want to hug her - because she is the house of many, the mother of many, and the one tortured by so many.
But today as I come back, she is withered and gray. The winter never does her right, and soon the last dark winter is coming, so close.
And I am powerless to prevent it.
I can look at her with despair in my heart and mind. But I know, if I were to reach a hand out - just for a touch of my fingertips - she would decay away.
So I say.
“I am sorry.”
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