I fear I've lost you through incontinence. O flee me not! Compunction renders me incapable of far-reaching rapine. 1. Yours is the brightest bud, a springing bloom, that pokes above the ground and reaches high for light, more light, and strains to grow new sight. I, though, am but the empty provenance, the nutrient-filled seed from which you sprout; I proffer energy for striving might: the relict of my sacrificial plight. My gesture is no sempiternal aid as his is----he: the soil, water, air, the minerals and vitamins unearthed, refreshing rain from manna-giving skies, promiscuous bees that spread your progeny, the caterpillar who by munching on your leaf unveils the mystery of why existence is bestowed upon your life---- he is your faithful nourishing life force. And I: just here to start you on life's course. 2. You are the black horse, thought by all to lose. Behind the starting gate, you chomp and neigh, swinging your head in earnest to run far. You rear up on hind legs, threatening to bolt, and just as your two horseshoe-covered hooves fall back to earth, the starting gun goes off, the gates----they open! Off every horse goes to seek to be the first one past the line. I am the bit that bites into your mouth, that hurts incessantly to keep you back from your full speed, so that you won't expend on the first furlong energy you'll need for one last sprint around the back into the final stretch to win the treasured purse; I am the blinders blocking out the waves of spectators that you can nonetheless still hear----the roar! the masses! here to see which paradigm of strength and stamina will conquer all and overcome at last. Be frightened not: they are a dream, a wisp created by the strain from your yearlong hard training. They exist but in the mind; what you can't see can't hurt. That's what I do for you. I am no rider, not like he who guides you through each pass and turn and cut, who paces you to keep you galloping an even rhythm, steering you by touch, by fingertips and slight movements of feet, who soothes you with his voice, manumits you from manacles of competitiveness to give you back the deeply ingrained thrill, exhilaration, onetime felt on wide grass plains where you roamed free as the west wind. He guides you to the win not just to win, but to express the joy of running swift; I'm here to help prevent your running's drift. 3. When summer bakes you with its wrathful sun, I am the icy shower that does help to cool your temperature but for a while; he is the only lasting remedy: the air-conditioning turned on full-blast. When autumn wracks you with the might of God, blowing you hither, thither, on the edge of typhoon winds incomprehensible, I am the sturdiest umbrella yet to have been innovated by mankind; but he is four walls and a sturdy roof. When gelid winter knocks upon your door with snowballs, icicles, and foggy breath to snatch away fanciful wanderlust, I am your hearth, your tea, your chocolate, your mittens, coat, socks, scarf, and woolly pants; he is the love that warms you from inside. And spring, when spring turns you into a bud, remember me, who once so fervently gave up his self, all of it, all for you. That you belong with him is all too true. Forgive me, for I know not what I do. -- 英语文工作室 http://www.wretch.cc/blog/jsengstudio/ 个板 defenestrate --

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