once or twice in a lifetime
you stumble upon a beautiful stone.
you pick it up, you hold it in your hands
amazed, dazed and in awe of the lines,
of the form, of the radiating glow, beauty,
in awe of–
in awe of just holding it in your hands,
you polish it, with your hands closed!
but not like other penguins.
you don’t give it away.
you don’t let it go,
not for the love of your life– for another penguin,
not even for this world.
you hold it close,
sleep with it,
you shape it,
you see it taking form
and you dream that it will have the traits of a creature who never forgets;
hoping that it will remember the nights when you laughed;
hoping for it to remember the words you never said, but felt!
hoping for it to be different, divine– a creature who once were called divine;
hoping for it to grow, and embrace it’s true form
an elephant, perhaps?
or some other creature,
and then it falls, from your hands
down the slippery ice,
into the never-ending sea of creatures
shaped by other creatures,
and away it goes.
that’s how dreams are lost,
but being a retarded penguin,
how should I know…