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Saturday, February 11, 2017

AND NOW, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS



And Now, A Word From Our Sponsors



Black rain gleaming
Down silver glassed panes
Reflections echoing memory
And youth's delusions, we,

Drink our pasts like water
Hoping for resurrection
For futures bright as tinfoil,
As the thunder whispers by.

Where were the moons of Jupiter
When we needed light?
Where were the knives of Caesar
When we needed to be cut free?

Why do the young fight and die?
When the old ones start the wars
It is not our fight
It is not our fight, but theirs to lose.

And we, the young, awaiting our turns, at attention, stand
Surveying the valleys of chaos,
Watching torn curtains flutter at remnants of windows,
Sifting through dreams to see what can be saved.

But there is no beauty in war
Not even in victory
For victory comes by death
And death is no ending at all.

Death is a dandelion bursting
Blowing in the wind of the world
There, and there, and there, it drifts
And never can be gathered.

Where were the grains of wheat
When we were starving?
Where fell the dew of Spring
When thirst consumed our tongues?

We are too young to learn
And too old to care
They have taken out our hearts
And replaced them with machines.

Look at us, dead on our feet
And cannot fall down
As our weary eyes go on living
Even as they wait to fall.

Standing on our high rise clouds
Looking for signs,
Reflections staring from a million pasts
Into a handful of futures.

See the world and what it is
Down there, torn past mending?
It is a sad and mournful thing
That started out so bright.

We are the young, now old before our time
And when we are gone,
There'll be no one left
To tell them of the joy.

And so, the night comes
With it's echoes and delusions
It's unfelt tears streaming from ravaged eyes
That have seen too much, that have hoped too much.

All our little revolutions, quashed,
Our anarchies, vanquished,
Our utopias, conquered, by jackbooted heels
We stand helpless at the windows of the world.

Till there is nothing left to be
And there is nothing left to see
But the dying of distant fires and ancient dreams
And black rain gleaming down silver glassed panes.






©by Voo
Aug 22, 09