buddha was the first
to theorize the game of suffering.
so why teach the kids the rules?

why hand them the dice
weighted with old debts?
why point to the board and say,
“this corner is safety.
that one is worth more.”

we dress them in tiny armor,
plastic crowns that leave a red mark on the forehead.
we tell them to stack their blocks higher,
to be the best little prince,
the fiercest little gladiator.

we are not preparing them for the game.
we are the croupiers,
leaning down,
guiding their small hands
to place the first,
fateful bet
with the only coin they have,
their attention.

it is the oldest inheritance.
not land,
not gold,
but a well-worn map of a labyrinth,
we promise they can win.
we teach them the moves
to avoid the shame of loss,
to chase the thin thrill of a temporary win,
all while the real theory gathers dust,
that the only way to win
is to see the dice are blank,
the board is drawn in ash,
and the only prize
is the freedom to walk away
from the table.

we teach them to play
because we are still playing.
we need them to validate our own lost years,
to make our suffering purposeful
by calling it tradition.

the greatest lie we offer,
wrapped in love bright as a new toy,
is that the game is mandatory.