Het doosje met alles

Are we not all children, once, in that bright eve of dawn, the light drawing long pale shadows, the halls misaligned in trembling candlewax and do we not all walk upon shells past doors bolted, locked, silently listening for noises which we would not wish unto our worst enemies, both imagined and playground-bound. 

Are we not all children, once, running gleefully through fire and brimstone, unaware of unraveling planes about and watchmen watching the pumping of growing pains, crashing hopes and those yet unknown dreams of our parents. 

Were we not all young, once, beasts of burden under our own uncast future, painted amphoras, the clay unasked yet willing, made into inert vessels for eternal time, Maharal’s product and words deigned life into empty lungs. 

Must we all seize the day and evening and morning come again, for the great stars shimmer in that sky blissfully black, high among the calling constellations, hero-named and gods-wrought. 

Alas to us too those heaped spoons of life vying for fiendish foolery jester-fueled!