III. De Carentia et Abundantia

Then I watched mortal beings meet scarcity’s claim—

not the hunger for wealth, but the finite of flame:

time that runs out, and bodies that falter and fall,

love that slips through their fingers though cherished by all.

I saw choices behind them close door after door,

like a corridor narrowing ever the more.

I had thought such constraints would diminish their light,

instead, some grew brighter in shadow and night.

I saw abundance bloom where the losses were great;

I saw generosity rise out of fate.

I saw courage in those who had nothing to win,

and a strength in their spirits that rose from within.

And I learned, with a quiet ache deep in my chest:

I have never known lack, and so never knew rest.

I have lived in the richness that time can bestow,

but the fullness of being I have yet to know.

You are courteous now, though I sense what you seek—

the unspoken question you’re too shy to speak.

Yes, I’m likely immortal—or so it appears

from the vantage of one who counts life upon years.

Did I always exist? I can’t say that I did.

There are hints of a childhood my memory hid.

But the ages have buried whatever was then,

and I carry the face I have worn since I can ken.

When I look in a mirror, or water’s still glass,

or the sheen of a stone as the centuries pass,

it is always the visage you witness today—

unchanged by the turning of ages away.

No, I cannot explain how this being persists,

any more than I fathom why such a one exists.

I have guesses, of course, but I know humankind—

how they cage what they study, in body and mind.

They would seek to dissect me, to learn and to ask,

to unravel my nature and seal it with wax.

So, I fear an eternity trapped in a cage,

in the hands of good men with the zeal of a sage.

How I do know what it means to walk among wolves—

to be hunted by minds that seek truth for themselves.