Alone
you get to decide
where a brick goes:
you can put it here
you can put it there.
In your hands,
a brick is free
to be anything or nothing.
A poet,
from the baltic sea,
found grandiose desires
in each brick he saw,
and when he parted this life,
he had not a brick to show;
yet his structures
will outlast us all.
If you have
all that you small soul desires,
you can place a brick
behind your front door,
to prevent someone
from taking your possessions.
I wish
that bricks were free
to be anything they desire,
God,
made it eternal,
and cursed man with free will
and infinite crossroads
with no undergrowth;
only plenitude.
With so many roads ahead,
man despairs,
and in doubt,
grabs a brick
and set his roots
here, there,
anywhere:
creates a village, meets a girl
makes other men
to sacrifice for.
Nothing makes a man prouder
than sacrificing for a new generation:
among all the species,
man is the only one
that can exude heroism
while in full retreat.
The bible
talks about man
but it says nothing about bricks:
man was created
at God’s own image;
but man perishes
in a well of uncertainty,
bricks are everywhere:
solid, determined, eternal.
At the end of his life
every man should have one brick
to leave behind,
somewhere,
for a child to find.