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.