The Boy and the Zoo

His Song seems to have no end, loud for it was meant for everyone to hear and it’s acquisitive for he can’t wait to join the battle like his descendants of long ago who brought down cities with their calls, their songs. Only, the one who sings now is no valiant warrior, no chivalrous knight, no king, not yet, but a mere boy with the type of chorus only a boy knows to sing; with the type of melodious, transcending, eternal words that only a boy knows to use, when his Father is taking him away. To the Zoo. And this joyous ode march’s along with them, accompanying them, filling the vehicle as it drives past strange shapes and blank faces, made of a variance of cold and numb substances, but that’s on the other side of the glass; inside there’s a different atmosphere of jubilation, a lilting vapor that suffocates and reaches every corner and crack in there, and The Fathers ears are no exception. The vapor seeps through his eardrums pass his soul and drips onto his own pulsing heart; which sends a reaction that travels up to his face and produces something, like a smile, with all the warmth that comes with it. And in this warmth The Father finds himself joining his son’s Psalm, but not in sounds and its vibrations or in rhythmic words and its expressions, but in the very own emotions and sensations behind it. In the own eagerness they both inherit. The only difference is the role; one is eager to see the other is eager to show. One is eager to attain and one to prepare. Teach about the caged beings to fierce and powerful to conform to this world, teach about how they are locked up and turned into displays that you can only see but never really see.