--William E. StaffordToday outside your prison I standand rattle my walking stick: Prisoners, listen;you have relatives outside. And there arethousands of ways to escape.Years ago I bent my skill to keep mycell locked, had chains smuggled to me in pies,and shouted my plans to jailers;but always new plans occured to me,or the new heavy locks bent hinges off,or some stupid jailer would forgetand leave the keys.Inside, I dreamed of constellations—those feeding creatures outlined by stars,their skeletons a darkness between jewels,heroes that exist only where they are not.Thus freedom always came nibbling my thought,just as—often, in light, on the open hills—you can pass an antelope and not knowand look back, and then—even before you see—there is something wrong about the grass.And then you see.That’s the way everything in the world is waiting.Now—these few more words, and then I’mgone: Tell everyone just to remembertheir names, and remind others, later, when wefind each other. Tell the little onesto cry and then go to sleep, curled upwhere they can. And if any of us get lost,if any of us cannot come all the way—remember: there will come a time whenall we have said and all we have hopedwill be all right.There will be that form in the grass.
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