Once upon a time,
we were cast as
hoodwinkers, thaieves,
old-timers of the deranged forests
and scarecrow-less fields,
peddling trickery and bedlam
from our ragtag sleeves
to the hungry child
sent far from home.
Yet here you are, all grown,
tendering coins
in your open palm.
Well, then:
take this unlikely sachet.
It will humble you all over again—
but entomb that dust as if
it was the enchanted must
of a dead tyrant
from the far-away
of the nursery room.
And then—
Gogamog, Blunderbore,
You recall the routine.
If you feel fear,
run to your mother—
no need for shame.
She has always tended
the secrets of our trade.
Listen to her explain.
Life is a giant—
but it wants nothing from us
other than to keep on being born.