the end of the World.
it begins
with
a
single
Spark
leaping from Man's control.
growing, spreading,
voraciously consuming everything
in a quest to quell its
insatiable hunger.
we watch as our Kingdom goes up in flames;
we listen as our creatures flee from the crumbling ruins of our ancient Empire;
we wait as our World becomes quiet.
quiet except for the roaring of Man's catastrophe that lunges nearer
and the silent wails that drift into the darkened sky as we fall.
dignified and accepting our fate; we stand solemnly as lambs before slaughter
as our world collapses, adust with our skeletons that once nobly stood crowned with golden-green jewels on lofty branches.
the beginning of the World.
it begins
in
silence.
there are no morning birds to fill the World will their joyous proclamations.
there are no deer to lightly traverse the sprigs of grass still damp with dew.
there are no mice to scurry about and collect their due wages with squeaking chatter.
we do not stand and catch the sweet breeze in our sun-dappled leaves.
the only sound is the gentle pattering of soft rain as the World starts anew.
the soil sprouts life; supported and fed through our sacrifice.
the saplings, reverent, are cradled by our brittle bones as they grow.
the buds of new flowers shyly peek out from their mounds of earth,
opening their faces to be tenderly kissed by the golden morning sun.
lured by their fragrance, our humblest subjects return.
they resume their role, pollinating, trimming, keeping the delicate cycle.
life returns, slowly, surely, reviving our Lands to their former lush splendor.
we remain, the noble ghosts of the past, a wary reminder to the timid new inhabitants of our Kingdom.
a gasp leaves our fragile new subjects in a frenzied panic;
diving into burrows,
disappearing into undergrowth,
hiding in high branches,
our subjects anxiously wait in furtive onlooking.
the tranquility of our wooded glade is shattered with the snap of a twig.
two feet wander down the dusted deers' paths,
dreamily ambling through meadows and scrambling over rocks.
the young trees, curious, bend their boughs and drape their leaves down over the trails,
casting stippled shadows that ripple across the swaying grasses as we lean in, listening,
holding our breaths in silence for the first Traveler since the end of the World:
a Child.
our subjects tentatively gaze upon the Child, in untrusting dismay at the unexpected intrusion.
surely Man was the fall of the Empire, the root of Disaster.
the Child wandered still, leaving only the faint imprint of footprints behind in the dust.
as the sun rises, casting its golden-pink glow onto the clouds,
the gently rolling lake waves,
the mountaintops,
our bare, bony boughs,
we let out our breaths and return into the morning light.
