A little piece about our constructed sense of the future, our need not only to believe in it but to make it happen, our desire to be eternal.

Broken Hands

In the Indo-European language

there was no future tense.

We carved the future

tense 

with hammers, chisels, and might. 

Our hands bled over the earth

they stained the stone, the cold messenger

announcing our triumph 

over time

we would be gone

only to return

as a participle.