Once we
walked on earth carpeted with gold;
sat round breathing
fires that lit away the cold,
where hot whispers
of moments come to fold,
spread tales
of winds grown stale with age.
Then came a
day for the turning of the page,
when our
house would rise hissing in flames
at the hands
of alien bandits aided by our kin...
Winds stand
still on the back of flapping flames,
as forests
faint at the decimation of their lings.
Mountains double
in pain at the passing of sanity,
as invisible
hordes of numb faces
witness the unfolding
of our demise.
Now here in
the ashes of this, our final hour,
stand we of
the nacred tongue- helpless, forlorn;
watching in
sunken silence-
the
festivity of fools clowning on sacred ground.
2015
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