page 97

the crown of gratitude
is never worn by kings;

to the common person
who sees every tangible as a gift
and every intangible as a miracle,

Persia itself is woven into the rug
under your feet.

:::

oh but it is the thirst of the root
that is miraculous.

not the water's abundance.

:::

the most dangerous force

in nature in when

we lend 

            love 

                   its

                       legs...

:::

"why aren't you makin' your son enlist!?
they need men, didn't you hear!
we're getting our asses kicked out there!
...your son's gonna grow up to be a coward."

buddy my boy has already been to war...
he's been spit at, beaten till he was blue---
even dragged from a car once bout twenty yards or so,
before someone stopped the car.

"shit...
 then put'm in! tell'm he's gonna have
to do somethin' otherwise i promise you he's
not gonna make it to twenty-six."

well, he's made it to eighteen. and i'll tell ya,
he's never raised a fist.

"what!?"

when my son was five years old,
i took him to our garden in the back
n' gave him a watering pot.
then i told him,
son, this'll be your only weapon.
against anyone who treats you badly,
you'll see them as flowers that need to be watered.
boys are gonna think you're soft.
they're gonna think you're not tough.
but you listen to me...
they'll have weak hearts.
every hit you take without hitting them back,
will make your heart stronger.
if they hurt someone you like,
same thing goes.
you stand in between them and your friend
and do nothing...even if they beat you.
understand?

"tha f**k's wrong with you man?
my son could die because of your son
being some f**kin spineless hippy!"

to this day,
my son keeps up our garden---
and he water's them and you wanna know
what he said to me the other day?

"psh---what? he's gay?"

no. he said,
i wanna thank you pops.
i was angry you didn't make me
a tough man, but you raised me
to be a compassionate man
and cause of that, i'd like to think
i'm pretty tough ya know?

"that means nothing if my son dies.
i'll blame you and your son."

fine, i'll take your blame
but you know how we feel compassion?

"how? mr. f**kin wisdom."

because we choose to suffer.
war is a choice.
our boys, our country,
chose to suffer to make others suffer
so they can end suffering.
if we win, that means we shot more bullets.
we killed more people.
suffering can't be cured with more suffering.
a victory and surrender doesn't mean suffering's gonna end.
it's just gonna become somethin' else.

"i don't get you man."

my son hasn't been touched
since he was seventeen years old.
no boys beat him anymore.

"ha! sure."

when he was that five-year-old,
i told him,
everyone is at war with himself, son.
and it is the worst of all wars.
if they fight you,
that means they're fighting something else inside.
they don't know how else to help themselves.
they think their fists will help them,
but it only makes them tired and they don't know why.
even if they become soldiers one day
and fight for our country...
and if they win...
they won't feel like heroes
even if they're honored as heroes.
their hearts will be tired.
they'll feel like dying flowers, understand?

when someone tries to hurt you,
think of this watering pot son...
it will be your best weapon got it?
you'll teach other men someday
that war means nothin'.