My Son, My Son; What have I done?

When the time comes,

That the light seeks a better audience,

(Of virtue and number),

Our story will be whispered,

Echoing through the empty halls of our descendants,

Yet unbuilt,

“We have lived and laughed,

Loved;

Now there’s nothing left.”

That delicate voice will be drowned out,

By the yawp of fearful children,

Born of our strife,

Raised by our villages,

Inheritors of our blind sin;

But only for /a/ time.

The cacophony will bounce off the walls of foreign neighbors,

Tuned in only to their ‘the’ language of existence,

Ricocheting like an unintended consequence,

Until that purely human noise,

Subsides;

A victim of itself.

And when tomorrow breaks,

The voice of a stranger will ring through the cosmos,

In a still, small voice:

“Goodbye, Mother.”

Then we will know the future,

Hold it in our hands,

Like a fistful of dirt.

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