Parable of Stones
by Gemino H. Abad
Every time I go into
the world’s morning, my pockets
are full of stones.
You cannot see them
where my hands are hid,
sometimes bruised by their edge.
And a quick and deadly aim
I have, and ask no questions.
My hands are cold.
And few stones left I have
at each day’s end,
and groan as my hands bleed.
My state — who can endure?
As morning breaks, I know again
I have more stones to cast.
You cannot see them
where my hands close
and all my days bleed.
Who will close my morning?
O, who will empty
my pockets of my stones?
I was at Happy Mondays a week ago, and there was a beautiful, touching poem read there. I vaguely remember, save for a few lines that stuck, but I didn't want to forget. So I searched and searched, hoping that I could keep it.
Luckily, it turned up.
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