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 soul desires
you can place a brick
behind your doors,
to prevent someone
from taking your possessions.
I wish
that bricks were free
to be anything it desires,
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 man
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 nothing but a brick
to leave behind,
somewhere,
for a child to find.
