The kingdom, they said, was for the child; not for its innocence, but its un-filed gaze.

The first milk flows, unmeasured and unnamed, a direct current from source to soul.

No label on the breast, no price upon the gift, life for life, soul for soul; a nourishment without substitute.

All before the world was split by the Scribe's sharp knife, before the map was drawn upon mind and skin.

But then the architects arrive with rule and line, to sell the wellspring back to us in jars.

They teach the names of Good and Sin, of Mine and Thine, and build a wall around what we already are.

How to return? You must not un-see the line, and cannot forget the taste of filtered streams.

The path is not to rewind the thread of time, but to find the silent witness to our dreams.

That un-carved stone that rests beneath the name, that child-like gaze that was never truly lost.

The kingdom is not a prize that you can claim, nor can it be given in another's name, but the ground on which the hollow walls were tossed.

For the gate was never locked, the guards were but smoke, the distance merely a story you were sold.

You possess both the prison and the key; between life and death, just remember what was lost.

The milk is still there, beneath the words they spoke, a warmth that will never see your soul revoked.