We always knew ours as the twilight land,
The sheets of sun splayed across the sky’s emblazon,
The inflamed crimson peaks dashing upward against night’s victory;
A world indifferent to our loves or hates,
Spurred fire springing like mustangs galloping across the dark horizon.
He said we should not look back, seek out the wisdom
Of ancient sages and poets, but strike out
Toward the setting sun, our evening land of outer calm;
Discover among the silences and deserts a new way forward,
A glimpse of things to come, of futurity without end; an openness.
The poor and poverty stricken will inherit the earth, her songs
The grass tongued anthems of a new world;
A place where the human face is at once itself and other:
A cause for celebration and murder, a violence that brings peace;
That turns armaments to cherished plowshares feeding all.
Paradise is but a thought of home, a place where friends gather,
Break bread and listen to the stories of the day;
Where each man, woman, and child live in harmony with this chaos,
Learn to accept death with an equanimity without redress;
Know with the knowing of things known: to question and be free.
Time is a river without beginning or end, a way into and out of things,
A coursing through the light and dark alike;
We who have come lately into this darkness seek more than we can know;
But this too is as it should be, a path sounding its way,
Swerving with and against the tide: the flow, the breaks and confusion.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.