Prelude

[Ganman]

The infant exits its glossy resting place
and instants spent suffering dissipate-fade-irrelevant
as the means. Agony rests only in memory-an eternal
womb unyielding and sealed; the mind is a vault-

for while her labor we’ll never dismember,
she welcomes the newborn and gone
are her days of unrelenting anguish.

This day we celebrate the end,
Eden’s foreshadowed torment
having ceased and commenced life;

let this moment persist as an echo-a ripple
which transcends Space and denigrates Time-
amidst the cosmic ocean… swirling, since
here we claim a fragile vase teetering-a batting
of Hist’ry’s sleepless eyelids-an elusive
instant which in hindsight might’ve never existed.

Let us sustain it-treasure it while it remains;
this bundle in blanket wrapped’ll be our innocence-
the burden we’d shed for establishing our temp’raments.

We’ll build it a forest and ‘mongst trees raise it-
we’ll keep out the weeds and serpents shan’t slither in-
no blemishes nor hindrances we’ll have here.
We’ll shave the branches so this child shan’t stumble
and truncate the woods so this garden grows grandly,
though we guard an orchard with one harvest.

When then a grey sky from the bright one springs
and out pours rain- black-painted smoggy ash
meant to sway our course and shake our courage.

Then Time immortal in white-black dress
and shackles descends, an angel-devil
grasping life in right hand and death in left,
to remind of an inevitable end
which our child can’t transcend-the patent fates
that neither forest nor fortress escapes-
separate yet intertwined as conjoined twins;

and our foolishness appears before us-
a bowing jester which exits the stage
to the applause and puzzled faces
of an audience which exists outside the page.

And thus concludes Infancy- a frail phase
that kept our sights off an evident fact-
our child is human as certain as we.

This instant has passed far too swiftly,
but alas it cannot last-for today
our child speaks. It asks of the Earth’s mysteries,
the meaning of life, and we haven’t the heart
to answer it.

Some truths are bittersweet,
far too bitter for words.

I'm not 100% sure what the procedure is, but I decided this poem should probably go through mild before moving onto serious. I feel like I'm wasting your time there with a couple of my poems.

Anyway, if you could take a look, I'd appreciate it.

[The calamitous stomping of a throng of dancers,
the thund’rous melody which presents itself in sound only
backdrops the birth of an infant;
a tribal beat reminds the reader of birth’s antiquity.]

[The woman screams. She is in pain.]

(EXIT THE DANCERS.
THEY HAVE SERVED
THEIR PURPOSE.)

Prelude

The infant exits its glossy resting place
and instants spent suffering dissipate-fade-irrelevant
as the means. Agony rests only in memory-an eternal
womb unyielding and sealed; the mind is a vault-

for while her labor we’ll never dismember,
she welcomes the newborn and gone
are her days of unrelenting anguish.

This day we celebrate the end,
Eden’s foreshadowed torment
having ceased and commenced life;

let this moment persist as an echo-a ripple
which transcends Space and denigrates Time-
amidst the cosmic ocean… swirling, since
here we claim a fragile vase teetering-a batting
of Hist’ry’s sleepless eyelids-an elusive
instant which in hindsight might’ve never existed.

Let us sustain it-treasure it while it remains;
this bundle in blanket wrapped’ll be our innocence-
the burden we’d shed for establishing our temp’raments.

We’ll build it a forest and ‘mongst trees raise it-
we’ll keep out the weeds and serpents shan’t slither in-
no blemishes nor hindrances we’ll have here.
We’ll shave the branches so this child shan’t stumble
and truncate the woods so this garden grows grandly,
though we guard an orchard with one harvest.

When then a grey sky from the bright one springs
and out pours rain- black-painted smoggy ash
meant to sway our course and shake our courage.

Then Time immortal in white-black dress
and shackles descends, an angel-devil
grasping life in right hand and death in left,
to remind of an inevitable end
which our child can’t transcend-the patent fates
that neither forest nor fortress escapes-
separate yet intertwined as conjoined twins;

and our foolishness appears before us-
a bowing jester which exits the stage
to the applause and puzzled faces
of an audience which exists outside the page.

And thus concludes Infancy- a frail phase
that kept our sights off an evident fact-
our child is human as certain as we.

This instant has passed far too swiftly,
but alas it cannot last-for today
our child speaks. It asks of the Earth’s mysteries,
the meaning of life, and we haven’t the heart
to answer it.

Some truths are bittersweet,
far too bitter for words.