Purple blanket

 He was born facing the world. Crying like any other infant fresh from the womb.
On the purple blanket in the sacred dawn.
Before he was born there was the little matter of the two lands divided.
One with an old man pacing back and forth in the mist. On the other side healthy hopeful families colored by their women ambition and community. The canyon between them was seemingly bottomless, again there was an inconvenient mist.
The man was angry and impatient. He wasn´t able to achieve anything from across the deep dip. Lines of people stood as witnesses as if this had any relevance at all.
Then something mixed and the baby was born onto the purple blanket.
Everything that folds into life is special. And after only a short time, this new person was walking and peeing on his own.
Walking around in those 40s up into the second story. Leaving behind what couldn´t serve him, Out doing me and showing me the genius of his direction.
I measure up the wood and build my coffin.