A Million Children


A million happy children
Live in that patterned, souvenir jar;
The one at the bottom of the garden
That held summer evening
Honey scented candles
And future talk fantasies.
A million, maybe more,
It’s really impossible to count.
They perpetually dance in
Their stained glass world
Of pure spectrum colours

Listen, oh so carefully, and you
Will hear them sing,
Sing in joyful tongues,
Under eternal sun,
Believing their fairymoon dreams –
Why not? –
They do not suspect that the
Wide base of the jar
(Carelessly left out in merciless early frost)
Has become detached,
Is missing, indeed.
They have such innocent trust,
Living in splendid abandon:
Why would we
Tell them any different?
What would be gained
By us or them?