If I’m going to be reading something out loud a hundred times, I’d rather read something worth engraving into my skull – until she develops her own taste, anyway. Once I’m done fiddling with the text, I may make it a physical book with some AI art.
You were playing with the world,
on one of its trillion roads,
when you stumbled from a ledge
and fell into a gorge.
The walls were steep and crowded
with bitter fruit and grass
The stream ran cold and clouded
in that lonely dark crevasse.
A crow came to advise you:
with all your strength, flap out.
You said that since you had no wings
you could not take her airy route.
I see it may be true, she cawed,
that the wind won’t take your weight.
I have been where you are now,
but I cannot pull you out.
A rat came to the edge and called
to climb up with your hands.
You showed him soft big fingers
that could not grip small cracks.
I hope you find holds for hands that big
that from here I cannot see.
I have been where you are now,
but I cannot pull you out.
A frog came to suggest
that the stream might lead to sea,
but you did not want to chase
a mere possibility.
He said, it’s hard to take the chance,
and go down a road you doubt.
I have been where you are now,
but I cannot pull you out.
After speaking they all left,
the crow and rat and frog –
occupied with their own play
with the varied world above.
But they sometimes came to visit
to see what you would do,
or explain again their own ways out
that might apply to you.
Then one night the moon weighed in,
that five billion year old rock –
it told you that you had to wait
until you sickened of the gorge.
The gorge was dark and thistled,
and you longed to be away.
You said you couldn’t possibly
be more tired of the gorge.
The tiredness is relative,
said the patient ancient moon.
You must sicken more of standing there,
than of walking in the gloom.
You must bore of your despair
and prefer the fear of the climb,
and decide you’d rather learn to fly
than make this place your home.
The moonlight faded and the sun
shone on your prison’s floor.
And you waded down the water,
having sickened of the gorge.
The frog had had the right of it,
but not all, for he was small,
and eventually the water road
blocked a creature who was tall.
You left the stream and searched the walls
for a part that wasn’t so steep,
remembering the rat and crow
as you started to climb and leap.
You were heavier than they,
and your skin more easily gouged,
but you had hands to grip the grass
as you made your own way
out!
of the gorge,
back into the varied world –
whose joys came in every color
along its trillion roads.
The animals rushed to meet you.
They cawed and squeaked and croaked
to celebrate that you’d pulled out
of the prison of the gorge.
Some years later you heard a cry
and looked around for the source,
and saw a creature fallen
into that same horrid gorge.
It called for help and you described
the road you’d had to take –
and when it balked and froze in place
you had to say the same:
I have been where you are now,
but I cannot pull you out –
I know your fear and sorrow,
and will wait for your way out.