By T.M. Schultze
You and I once played in these same fields,
That spread for miles in each direction.
You and I were one of those happy kids,
Playing games with no winners or losers,
You and I lived in this world of flowers,
Dotted with stunning majestic oak trees,
And yet, this is a place that you and I,
Cannot picture in our human minds,
Here, the children need not grow up, or grow,
No responsibilities, no worries,
Swept away in the winds of perfection,
Just an endless life of play and laughter.
The sky is white like the artist’s blank page,
A phenomenal glow that soothes the skin,
Hints of a light from a higher being,
Comforts the mind, but heaven it’s not. For,
In the distance, approaches a menace,
A little spot of darkness tinged with fear,
Slowly moving over the horizon,
Like a pencil point moving up the page,
But quickly the dot splotches overhead,
Like wet black paint thrown across a canvas,
In a quick artistic fit of anger,
A warning that this utopia is unreal.
Most scurry away, they know what’s coming,
Fearful, hiding behind the old oak trees,
But one of the kids, drunk with happiness,
Thinking of playtime, ignores this warning.
A strong, ominous hand grabs his shoulder,
And as the child resists, the man says,
“Don’t worry, we’re going on a journey.
Come with me. We are leaving this old world.”
This man’s power is too much for escape,
And as the youngster evades this man’s grip,
The child gives up but grows curious,
Why must he leave this truly pleasant place?
Will he ever see these fields again?
Tears flow down his sad face for the first time,
When he is told of a world, full of war,
Disease, sin, hatred, pain, heartbreak, sadness,
The thought the death, the eraser tip of life,
Things which he must now nobly overcome.
The man tells the poor terrified child,
“Your death may bring you back to these fields,”
These thoughts weigh him down with melancholy,
And the kid realizes that these old pastures,
Hid from him a hideous dark secret.
Just then, all his surroundings turn to black,
He falls into a hole which opens up,
And down the birth canal goes the child,
Whose nice, quiet, beautiful existence,
Before existence, is taken away.
When they suck the goo out of his nose,
And wash away the mucus from his face,
Dry him off with a cheap hospital towel,
And the mother rocks her baby to sleep,
He cries, but not out of innate instinct,
For in the first few seconds of his life,
He knows with utter dread this ugly world,
And that memory quickly fades away.
“What a beautiful baby,” the mother says.