The stench of tragedy
Lies heavy in the air—
A burned, tacet sweetness,
Mixed with bitter ash.
There are armies at the gates,
At the walls and the doors,
All wanting for a prize
That was never wanted at all.
They will sing of this, one day,
Long after our time has gone,
Of the valor with which we fought,
Of the city that lies buried in the ground.
This is not a happy story.
There were too many warnings
We did not heed.
And we are but a city at the edge
Of the world, oblivious to the
Idea that we could be gone, entirely,
With the flick of a single match.
I followed the moon
so that I could find you.
I trusted her to help me
with everything
that went wrong in my life.
you you you you and I
says the Wind
And I ran around the world,
but the moon never moved
from its place in the sky.
I have not found you yet,
but tonight I’m running again.
the sky is black and
i think
i am almost with you.
This night falls as all the others do—
Moon without sun, stars in the inky sky—
But this time, this night, we have won.
Never again shall we greet the dawn
With sharpened swords and funeral pyres.
Our enemy is gone! Never to return!
What else could prompt these drinks and
Dances, a celebration of the survivors
As much as it is the dead.
We have lived, we say,
We have seen yesterday, and will see
Tomorrow, too.
What we do not see are blades of steel and iron,
From forges far beyond our own,
Hiding in shadows and crypts.
They are whetted and ready;
This is not a happy story.