And they will say many things. And they will have many theories. And they will talk about you being 'unstable'. And they will scoff. And they will put you down. And they will carry on with their lives having adequately emptied their sacs of poison. And you will smile and remember an old poem and you will say your goodbyes and you will walk away. For you know when your feet bring you back, they, with their sacs of posion will not be there. But the little room with the red curtains, the little warm room of a place you call home will be there, waiting. The chairs, with their green canvas are standing in, silently for you in the meantime. Munna, is on the run, again.
I sit beside the fire and think. By JRR Tolkien.
I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago,
and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.