Submerged Under the Clock

Sounds creep into my ear, sounds that have wandered over these valleys, mounts and plains, once debased by ruined man, sounds that creep from the crevices of these wrecks, they have wandered- over time and seasons, under the sky, now painted cyan. They tell me of mortal spoils, how the living scorched the earth by mindless strife and broils. They tell me of diabolic alchemy, how golden fields burned, screaming, for what was the devil’s euphony. These sounds have survived that marriage between man and arms, they now course through these settlements, homes and barns. Appraising these stories about the power of time, telling these innocent mortals of the epochs of wartime. They sing of its glory- time - it is unrelenting, unforgiving, almighty and true, the time, it is often called God, Zeus, the fourth dimension – has changed the colour of this atmosphere which now bears a unique hue, has altered what comprised the heavens - the sky wasn’t always blue. They sing of its work – time – has achieved so much more than what we could, has subverted the things that we did, wouldn’t and would do for us and that which isn’t us, things -most unnecessary, unneeded- over which we’d fuss. It is time, which has dug the graves of those in history, who came, killed, conquered and ruled – time is revealing, yet itself, a mystery. It is time, which has taught these people the might of words and the plight caused by cruelty, hatred and those who did fight. What remains now, are memoirs, lessons, and all that could be absorbed, from these once-unfortunate grounds that reeked of blood, for they now have sprawling grass that covers carcases of hateful man, intermingled and nourishing the mud. Time, it is an overlord of entropy and dissipates accumulated hate and shock, Time, it keeps untold histories submerged under the clock.