Maturation of a Nation

A poem about conscience and war.

Hot winds blow

loose feathers fly

and in their wisps

rise rumours

of hatred, war, and greed.

 

Lost in time

they spin on currents

dropping their burdens

like seeds to earth.

 

We who must harvest

this insane legacy

(since we were the sowers)

carefully tend the crop

lest we run out of fuel

for our accustomed ambitions.

 

Nonetheless we should let it rot.

 

And directionless proceed

into the future

with nothing

but our consicences

for manna.