Sunday, April 18, 2010

The library

I have this favorite garden of mine I
visited when I was young.
It had fountains, rivers,
It had innumerable paths, mystic and unknown,
or maybe just forgotten, or ill used.
But I visited for the flowers
of knowledge, the yellowed petals,
those musty yellow and tan petals,
I sat among them, between the rows,
the hedges of wisdom,
the gifts of our ancestors.
I would let myself be enveloped by them,
and their intoxicating scent,
their inherent beauty hidden, waiting for
someone to spend a little time
perusing them, smelling them, examining them,
learning from them.

I never understood why they shed those golden flowers
from that tree of knowledge.
But now I know, now I understand.
Some things are not worth remembering,
some times it is not worth it fighting the sandstorm,
burying piece by piece, the information
that was deemed unnecessary.

Indeed I will be there one day too,
I will be no rossetta stone,
no Iliad, no Odyssey.
Just a flower,
shed from the overburdened tree,
lost among the multitudes of my fellows.

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