What do I care? They’re only words,
flung out in speech like careless pearls;
it’s not as if they can raise boils
or lay an endless, babbling curse.
Oh, wait; that’s not entirely true.
For in the Celtic lands, the bard
could with their words alone transform
a thing in such a way.
What do I care? Those bards are dead;
were their pale spirits gathered here,
each duly armed with sticks and stones,
I doubt they’d raise a bruise.
Well, wait; I’d like to take that back,
and years of useless, pointless talk
avoiding one small, simple truth;
that your own words can hurt you.
07 APR 2006
