When I was a younger man than I,
I wandered ‘pon this puzzling sphere,
beauteous, blue and green,
wond’ring how so much had come to be
hatred, tyranny and fear.
I wondered how the writhing wilds,
named, and so empowered,
were warped by growing shadows on
the land, expanding from the tower,
gleaming ivory in the dawn.
I wondered why the rolling lands–
dark with ivory–
the solid foot upon which stood
the high authority,
didn't shudder and topple and scatter white bricks,
I wondered why the living veins,
leafy vines of green,
pulsating up the ivory walls
concealed the cracks they swell–
why fortify the flaccid stone,
and, grasping, sap it still?
I wondered how the nesting twig,
and peace and hope therein,
was given by the ivory dove,
and why coloured pigeon kin,
diseased, received no love.
I wondered why the gargoyles gray
were dressed in ivory–
did pigeons wash their haunts in white,
to prove their inner light?
and forge validity?
I wondered why the ivory-glazed eye,
severed vessel from soul–
for only one by the other may be
seen as healthy parts of a whole;
to sunder them was fallacy,
when love would unite them in liberty;
for are both birds not pigeon and dove?
I wondered all of this and more,
but I no longer wonder for
when the crumbling ivory hand enclosed,
and forbade me to divine
the growth that's in decay,
shaking in dismay–
I saw the hand was mine.