Instead
of the gift of life, they ask for the release of criminal ephemera, the robot
Barabbas and all its short-term thrills. The gift that kept on giving, their hope
for tomorrow, is betrayed. Money can buy them anything. Beaten and mocked, the
gift absorbs the shocks, even as it keeps giving the gifts of water, food,
light and space. Wounds appear, either side of the March Equinox, as the gift
is foolishly wasted, taken for granted, treated as fixed goods. They pour
forth, wounded earth, wounded sky. We gaze upon them from afar, wondering how
it came to this.
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