Wilderness

‘Angered seasons have ere now’, creak the bones Of the old, ‘laid cities to waste. Now time Will uproot from our earth the enraged stones And heap them upon our heads’. But the grime Of their dreads leaves the young unmoved and sure In changing with the changings of the free World to find horizons broader and more Alluring. This time's different. It's Me. My land is dying, street by crumbling street. 'This used to be ...’ and ‘Here we used to have ...’ I moan, and children flung ere it was meet From this their cocoon, cannot laugh and brave With their mocking ‘You should write a memoir’ This blitz of reminiscence. Their mute nods Mourn one more thing swallowed up by the war: Youth and old age dueling with time’s rods.