The Old Ones do not work, for the
State takes care of them. They sit in the
sun in summer and they sit by the fire in
winter. They do not speak often, for they
are weary. The Old Ones know that they
are soon to die. When a miracle happens
and some live to be forty-five, they are the
Ancient Ones, and the children stare at them
when passing by the Home of the Useless.
Such is to be our life, as that of all our
brothers and of the brothers who came before us.
Such would have been our life, had we
not committed our crime which changed
all things for us. And it was our curse
which drove us to our crime. We had been
a good Street Sweeper and like all our
brother Street Sweepers, save for our
cursed wish to know. We looked too long
at the stars at night, and at the trees and
the earth. And when we cleaned the yard
of the Home of the Scholars, we gathered
the glass vials, the pieces of metal, the dried
bones which they had discarded. We wished
to keep these things and to study them,
but we had no place to hide them.
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