Ever wonder where the times are going? FWR has written us a prose poem about it.
My grandfather was a weaver of tales, a great storyteller who kept me fascinated with yarns from 'the old days', where horses ruled and great wars were fought...and wide eyed, longing with anticipation for the 'future' where – when I was his ripe old age – we would all be flying around in rocket cars or living on the moon.
Time passes (some say). I am a storyteller for my children, plotting tales I will tell my grandson, yarns from the 'old days' where motorcycles ruled and freedom was fought for, battles lost and won. I will make him long for his future when everyone will be riding rocket ships to the stars.
Time passes (some believe) I am dust to my descendants who weave tales for their children, yarns from the 'Old Days', the times before the great wars when we lived on a green and blue fantastical planet, they will sit wide eyed longing for the time horses will grow in the labs and they can put away their rocket ships.