I am from bustling crowds and houses too close together,

seas of people swarming in

supermarkets, clothing stores, small local businesses.

busy town roads and clotted highways,

thousands of people going thousands of directions

each with their own life, their own story.

I am from stately houses and shiny cars,

primly manicured lawns and freshly painted fences;

gilded cages that mask the imperfections of life.

and the people in these cages are little more than puppets,

porcelain dolls in wooden dollhouses who

smile in one breath and sneer in the next.

I am from lavender walls and sunflowered bedspreads,

sunflowered pillows and sunflowered curtains,

windows overlooking those immaculate lawns

and shiny new cars and gilded cages,

windows I sat by each night.

I am made of those windows,

those lavender walls and sunflowered bedspreads;

symbols of my youth,

a distant corner of my childhood.

we are all little girls in beds of sunflowers

before we are porcelain dolls in gilded cages.

this is where I am from, but this is not who I am.

when did you look at what I created for you

and decide to destroy it?

two hundred thousand years ago, you were born

amidst salt and smoke,

clay molded carefully to form your figure.

the world was flat then,

a canvas painted with

rivers, mountains, valleys, oceans.

you founded great civilizations,

formed governments,

built monuments.

you established armies,

scores of warriors bred to fight

for bravery, for heroism, for honor.

today, you fight senselessly.

today, I pick through the ruins of

ravaged forests, razed cities.

waste clogs the ocean, the lakes, the rivers;

mountains melt, cough up the corpses of climbers.

I stand in the remains of a mosque in Pakistan,

you now send children to do a man’s job

and few ever come home.

I watch your civilizations, once great, rot from the inside,

your monuments crumble to dust.

two hundred thousand years ago, you cowered in caves,

hiding from your creator,

and I gave you my greatest gift, unaware

of how cruel sons can trick their fathers.

today, the world burns,

and I wonder why I ever granted you fire.

when did you look at what I created for you

and decide to destroy it?

two hundred thousand years ago, you were born

amidst salt and smoke,

clay molded carefully to form your figure.

the was flat then,

a canvas painted with

rivers, mountains, valleys, oceans.

you founded great civilizations,

formed governments,

built monuments.

established armies,

scores of warriors bred to fight

for bravery, for heroism, for honor.

today, you fight senselessly.

today, I pick through the ruins of

ravaged forests, razed cities.

waste clogs the ocean, the lakes, the rivers;

mountains melt, cough up the corpses of climbers.

I stand in the remains of a mosque in Pakistan,

you now send children to do a man’s job

and few ever come home.

I watch your civilizations, once great, rot from the inside,

your monuments crumble to dust.

two hundred thousand years ago, you cowered in caves,

hiding from your creator,

and I gave you my greatest gift, unaware

of how cruel sons can trick their fathers.

today, the world burns,

and I wonder why I ever granted you fire.