In another time,
I could have spoken of myself and others
as having walls, certainties,
doors to enter and leave,
destinies of discernible proportions.
A place, a name, a grave,
litanies of snow and rain.
That is what I know of my ancestors,
of their bones,
of the axes and flints of their fires.
And I see their dark faces,
their eyes reflecting the dragons
of wood and coal,
burning into the gray ashes of dawn.
And hear the children held to their breasts
being told stories of war and the hunt,
and lost voyages of no return,
and strange shores.
But it was all contained in beginnings and ends,
and the ghosts of the world
tending the dead,
directing the living.
But this time,
is the end of time.
This time we corrupt our genes
and discover the secrets of God’s diary.
We pound on doors never meant to be ours,
and confront angels with our fear,
and tell each other,
the fire in our souls
has a place,
a time never seen or known.
So I live at the end of history.
I watch children
discovering the rain,
touching the fragrance of flowers,
unmindful that it is all over.
That we are leaving our world.
We have unlocked rooms belonging to God,
and in our knowledge,
play with a fire never meant to be ours.
there is a coming, a star, a voice
calling us back,
describing our place,
holding our dreams in Eden, perhaps…