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,


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,


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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