A forgotten language outlawed by ruler by strap by fist.

Snatched from mother and father to boarding schools ruled by grim faced nuns.

The people of the red land the children of Terra Australis, the Great Southland, Australia.

Memories of rivers, of tucker bag, emu egg, wichitie grub, fish all forgotten like the language.

Bush memories, song line memories, ancestor memories, skin knowledge all forgotten.

In a forgotten language outlawed by ruler by strap by fist.

The Irish Child gathered rocks to fling at the English soldiers in the streets of Belfast.

Fire, from molotov cocktails made from bottles filled with petrol, launched at tanks rattling in the streets.

The Irish Child only knew war, not caring about political affiliations or even the reasons why.

Or even knowing anything about the conflict itself, only that his parent's were against the soldiers, and he would protect them with his life.

The Irish Child grew a scatterwag in the streets, banging bin lids in cobblestone street at the approach of soldiers.

Burning bottle, rock, glass, wood and finally bullet, though that was a game the adults played. The deadliest game of all.

Vale the Irish Child, weep the Irish child,

Cry for innocence, all for the Irish child.

And is the soul ship wrecked on some celestial shore

Existing only in memory of an omnipotent God

And these vessels we carry around these bodies

Are they just husks after all

Fulcrum for souls

And is the soul eternal

Soulful eyes

Soulful heart

See into your soul

Spoke from the soul

That is who we really are

And lives are spent finding another

If you're lucky you do

Soul recognition

Beyond all this

Souls were weighed in Russia

.001 of a gram

In an experiment

But we know all this already

This soul realization

And for what else are we

But this

And this.

The Kalderash, Gitano, Romany, Roma. One thousand five hundred years ago they left India now found in Europe, Turkey, Spain, France, America, Canada, Australia and Brazil

Men are chi women are chal, people believed them Egyptian so gypsy was spoke.

Expelled or moved on from Germany 1416

Milan 1493

France1504

Spain 1512

Sweden 1525

England1530

Denmark 1589

Portugal 1538

Prohibited in America 1885

And so to the genocides...ethnic cleansing in Europe, hangings in England, the porajimes in the WW2 concentration camps 500,000 to 1 million.

The einsatzgruppen on the Eastern Front killed on sight 1 million.

Croatia killed 25,000.

Sterilization of women in Czechoslovakian society.

Death is impure for Romany when someone dies the family of the deceased are considered impure for a while.

They worship Saint Sarah who was the Indian Goddess Kali.

The Romany language is from Sanskrit from India.

A legend is told of a gypsy blacksmith making the nails to put Christ to the cross, and so they were forever cursed to wander the world.

Over the rolling back hill the sky was closer, it was like you could touch heaven nearly but not quite.

The sun came through the dark clouds always rolling past, so that's how it was here.

The land rose up to hills beyond, dips and hollows, intersecting dirt roads leading nowhere except to a farmers gate.

For a while it was enough, the grass laid out below the sky, like you could touch it.

You had watched the moon at night go through its cycles for months, waxing, waning, full moon, crescent - moon glow made shadows warm in the darkness.

All this was enough, and yes it was beautiful, and yes you fell in love with it. As you wanted nothing more except to watch the days and night go by, like so many hours joined together.

You were a part of it, feeling it like wind on your skin, the smell of rain before a storm, sunlight on a spiders web.

Lightning miscalculated across the Moorish sky set your nerves on fire, tingled in your teeth, where you clenched them.

The boom of thunder was like the drumming of some God, a wild orchestra on a forgotten earth.

Heaven was close here, yet incalculable,mythic, untouchable, yet just there in clouds.

Beautiful, beyond the rolling hills.

Strong...he was like a bull in the field...strong..controlling two Clydesdales hitched to plows...with leather straps...strong..my grandfather...yes I loved him...the smell of tobacco...singing Danny Boy... aboriginal wet nurse as a child..I should have got in between...my father and him...when they fought..that one time..but I was only a kid...poor pa..poor pa..we all tread our own path...and sons are the curse of fathers...and grandsons..they were treated like an annoyance...stupid questions all the time...wish he would have loved more...wish I could have loved more..RIP in peace pa.

Here I could have written words that would have broke your heart

There I just did...maybe

Was your heart broken in the first place?

Did you mend it with a million sunrises and sunsets?

Was it ever enough? All the things you owned?

What would you give to them again?

If you could?

Did you say the right words?

Are you loved and did you love them?

Are you sorry you hated?

Are you scared of the end or welcome it?

In the minute past and the minute before have you changed?

The words I write here or there are just words

But they're not are they?

Words have power, like the heat of a fire on your hand

Like like the taste of blood on your tongue

Like the pain ending finally with sweet relief

Loving the world and all that's in it was not for the likes of you and me

It was for God's, Angels and prophets on a cross

The words I write here.

The words I write there

Even as I type this words above the type writer form on the phone, giving me choice to choose a verb a noun and does AI take away free will? Impede the creative process?.

I think it has no soul, no heart, let's be clear on that, AI goes through the motions, uses the right words, but does it, can it, describe rain on a hot road?, the feeling of holding a wild fish just caught?.

Your first kiss?, a time you mourned?, a time you nearly died?

Your heart when you fell in love?, it is a simile AI, nothing more.

It mirrors mankind's words and has no free thought per se,, people teach AI how to write, it is not some evil automated things taking over the net, it learns by copying.

Does AI have a place in the writing process? maybe for descriptive words which were in the back of your mind anyway.

But to truly write it must come from you not AI - that's laziness.

In a way AI can be like a Webster's dictionary, used in that way it's fine.

So, to summarize, yes or no AI for me? It's a definite N O.

Four times, four times I nearly died. Once I think I did, watching myself from a distance, but came back.

Cars, violence, birth...the question is why?

Why am I here?Why is anyone here?Why?

Every soul has a choice, good or evil I believe, and I chose good, light, but I could have gone the other way.

Remember this..choose.