i travelled from afar to look once again at
a magical place from my childhood,
the birthplace,
of stories and dreams,
where imagination and creativity
took flight, never weighed down by commonsense.
BUT
my tiny kingdom had been destroyed by progress.
i stood on hot concrete,
staring incredulously at a large edifice of
glass like steel and steel like glass.
searching my memories,
i did not see this
man-made monstrosity.
rather, reflected in the mirror like steel,
i see a cluster of wild apple trees,
stunted and gnarled.
through the eyes of a child
these wild trees were a magical orchard,
created just for me.
i sat in the tall grass,
shaded by succulent fruit,
listening to a symphony of insects and birds,
watching stories unfold in the clouds.
it was a Garden of Eden.
for a creative child,
the perfect backdrop
for imaginary tales,
tales which progress
will never destroy.
stories outlast cities.
stories,
part of our shared, collective consciousness,
living where neither rust nor mold can destroy them.
stories live on in us.
