And will the flowers die?

And will the people die?

And every day do you grow old, do I
grow old, no I’m not old, do
flowers grow old?

Old things – do you throw them out?

Do you throw old people out?

And how you know a flower that’s old?

The petals fall, the petals fall from flowers,
and do the petals fall from people too,
every day more petals fall until the
floor where I would like to play I
want to play is covered with old
flowers and people all the same
together lying there with petals fallen
on the dirty floor I want to play
the floor you come and sweep
with the huge broom.

The dirt you sweep, what happens that,
what happens all the dirt you sweep
from flowers and people, what
happens all the dirt? Is all the
dirt what’s left of flowers and
people, all the dirt there in a
heap under the huge broom that
sweeps everything away?

Why you work so hard, why brush
and sweep to make a heap of dirt?
And who will bring new flowers?
And who will bring new people? Who will
bring new flowers to put in water
where no petals fall on to the
floor where I would like to
play? Who will bring new flowers
that will not hang their heads
like tired old people wanting sleep?
Who will bring new flowers that
do not split and shrivel every
day? And if we have new flowers,
will we have new people too to
keep the flowers alive and give
them water?

And will the new young flowers die?

And will the new young people die?

And why?

(Brendan Kennelly) 

I was feeling sour,  a few hours ago, “there should be a point of termination to this process of getting hurt repeatedly, which at times comes with a partial  allowance for emotional subordination, emotional abuse. A gradual elimination of self from such world appears to be more an intelligent decision” ….

Many poets have written about “Growing Up”, a child leaving his world of blissful fantasies, a world where wicked kings torture beautiful princes and princesses, hold them captive in some brooding, fear-inspiring castles, the air in which is brewed to a higher level of pungency by those evil spirits, i.e. magically wonderful old witches, then ensues outside the castles’ windows, a series of battles between “Good people and Evil people”, which usually result in celebration of  invincible and much-desired bright points of termination “….and they live happily ever after”. Childhood is also about being curious, painfully inquisitive, probing everyone around about everything around – why, who, when and where, and releasing, overwhelmingly, an onslaught of queries about things that grown-ups, parents, and other elderly gentlemen & women, got acclimated to, who have taken many things for granted, and to amuse immensly at them floundering across to find the right expression to explain a “have-seen-but-never-spent much thought” phenomenon. We call them “Child-like Wonderment”, a phase of “Inherited Immaturity”,{link: a lifestage when the sense of helplessness is not something to be pitied at….}, which tends to evoke multi-hued emotions in us, the grown-ups and that much avoidable “Oh I wish..”, “Kaash…” factor!